


Need to Know Basis

by Watermelonsmellinfellon



Series: How They Could Have Met [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BAMF John, Bisexual Character, Bottom Sherlock, Cute Sherlock, Drama, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Humor, John is Sherlock's Equal, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mind Palace, Possessive Sherlock, Romance, Sexual Content, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Relationships, Shy Sherlock, Slash, Snark, Soldiers, Telepathy, Top John, leader John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:44:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watermelonsmellinfellon/pseuds/Watermelonsmellinfellon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things shouldn't be aired and should remain a need-to-know basis. Unfortunately for John Watson, nothing is ever just need-to-know. Seeing into the minds of people around you, ruins those need-to-know barriers a bit and brings headaches. When he meets Sherlock Holmes, whose mind is perfect and doesn't give him headaches, he embarks on a friendship that could be more. Hmmm...</p><p>A/N: WARNING! ERRORS THAT I NEED TO FIX BUT AM TOO LAZY TO. WHEN I EVENTUALLY RE-WRITE THIS, JOHN WON'T BE A BRIGADIER. AND I ACTUALLY DO KNOW THAT BRITS DON'T CELEBRATE THANKSGIVING. AS IT'S BEEN 2 YEARS, MY WRITING HAS IMPROVED ALONG WITH MY KNOWLEDGE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> *****NOTE*****I've changed John's ranking in the military. I checked the British Armed Forces ranking list and I'd prefer him to be a Brigadier General. Higher up on the power level I guess you can say. I tried to find out if the RAMC has Brigadier Generals that are Army Doctors, but I'm still not sure, so I'm just going with that. If it doesn't work that way, I'm not changing it, this is fanfiction. If you do know how it works and know I did it wrong, please inform me in a kind manner and I 'may' fix it.*****NOTE*****
> 
> John is more soldier like in this. No back to the window, no easily glancing over things. He pays attention and stays away from danger. He also threatens Mycroft. 
> 
> John is a certain form of telepath. He needs eye contact though.

 

 

**A/N: Hello, people! The first chapter of an idea I got! John is more awesome in this with a lot more skills and abilities.**

**I don't own Sherlock. Quotes from the show aren't mine.**

**I have no beta.**

**ENJOY!**

*******NOTE*****I've changed John's ranking in the military. I checked the British Armed Forces ranking list and I'd prefer him to be a Brigadier General. Higher up on the power level I guess you can say. I tried to find out if the RAMC has Brigadier Generals that are Army Doctors, but I'm still not sure, so I'm just going with that. If it doesn't work that way, I'm not changing it, this is fanfiction. If you do know how it works and know I did it wrong, please inform me in a kind manner and I 'may' fix it.*****NOTE*******

John Hamish Watson stared at the wooden floor of his small apartment room in the bedsit. He'd been sitting in the same place for several hours, just trying to clear his mind of everything and anything.

Ever since being invalided from Afghanistan, he'd stayed in this small room more often than not. Going into public and seeing people, wasn't really his thing anymore.

He hated meeting the eyes of people, because he  _saw_ things he didn't want to see. He saw their lives. Their feelings. The best and the worst they have ever done. Nothing was shielded from John and he hated it. Certain things weren't meant to be public knowledge and unfortunately, John suffered with this odd  _ability_ , seeing things he really wished that he didn't.

He didn't know what it was called. Frankly, it was disturbing. Meeting someone's gaze always lead to poor John being pulled into them. Even for a split second, he would know everything there was to know about them, the good and the bad. He hated it. Invading privacy, though not deliberately, made him uncomfortable. And no one knew he could do it. Like he'd  _ever_ tell anyone.

That's what made him such a good soldier and it was just easier to be around people you already knew and saw on a daily basis.

John had been a Brigadier General as well as a Doctor, Biologist, Microbioligist and Medical Support Officer in the military.He'd spent years in the same place, with the same people. He'd come to terms with everything about them. There was no new information to be had. It was peaceful for his mind. But then he was injured on the field and was sent home.  _People everywhere_! It was terrible!

He took to wearing sunglasses and hiding his vision from people. Besides, they shielded his gaze and made people think he was looking right at them when really he had closed his eyes just to be sure.

Still, there were times he couldn't not look or he'd catch himself staring at people. It was enough to give him horrible headaches. The influx of information was hard to handle. It was just too much. It made his eyes hurt.

Tension headaches and migraines became the norm for him. He tried not to leave the apartment. Tried really hard to remain unmoving and would always stretch the last of his groceries, not wanting to venture into public more than necessary.

It was also hard to walk with a limp, though psychosomatic. A cane left him with only one hand to carry things with. It was the stress from the constantly appearing information. He'd come to really hate eyes. There was a saying, that 'eyes are the windows to the soul' and he couldn't agree more. Eyes were the things that made him see into people. They were the reasons he was so stressed.

Fuck eyes and their annoying windowness.

John was going to need a better apartment soon. His therapist concurred. His pension wasn't enough and he knew he'd need a flatmate at least if he wanted a better place and an easier time getting food. Which meant he'd have to meet  _people_. Which meant  _looking_ at them. Which meant seeing their  _eyes_. Ugh.

John got up stiffly, now that the sun had risen. He'd been sitting like that for five hours. Nightmares of the war keeping him up all through the night.

He had severe PTSD and with his sister's marriage destroyed and she drinking herself into oblivion, plus the memories of the war and the shouts, explosions, training and the things he'd seen in the eyes of his fellows, he couldn't keep it all in. He suffered from everything.

Bloody eyes.

John went about his morning routine and decided after a good cuppa, that he'd go for a walk. Maybe fresh air would help. Or maybe he was just setting himself up for a fall through someone's memories or past.

Bugger it, he was going.

It was a nice morning and not many people were out and about at such and early time in the day. By lunch he had decided to actually go into a little café and order a good cuppa. Nothing like good tea to relax you.

He sat here for a good while, until he was finished.

Then it was time to trek back to the apartment, he cut through a local park.

"John? John Watson?"

He froze in stride and look around, recognizing someone from years past.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford.

"Mike? Oh, yes, Mike, how are you?"

"Oh I know, I've gotten fat."

"Not at all."

And still he did not meet the man's gaze, though Mike didn't need to know that.

Some small talk and John eventually revealed that he'd been shot and invalided. They sat together on a park bench and for several moments, they passed the time with meaningless chatter.

The subject of needing a better apartment came up and Mike suggested flat-sharing. Though John knew that was what he needed, he was still skeptical.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike mentioned someone he knew needing a flatmate just earlier that morning. He was grinning as he said it.

And so John Watson followed Mike Stamford to Barts.

"It's changed."

John looked around and nodded. He hadn't seen the inside in ten years. It  _had_ changed a lot.

"You sure you don't want to take your sunglasses off? The lighting still isn't so great and it may be harder for you to see."

John shrugged off his worry. "I'm fine. I have a bad migraine and the light is the last thing I want right now."

Mike pushed the door ahead of them open and let John hobble in first.

He looked around, eyes barely paying the man in the back of the room any mind. He'd gotten good at ignoring people.

"A bit different from my day," he mumbled, looking around at the obvious changes.

"Definitely."

The man in the back spoke up, "Mike can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the land-line?"

"I prefer to text."

John's attention was captured and he couldn't help but look the man over. Tailored suit, clean and shaven appearance, hands on the microscope. Obviously an intelligent man with money. Deep voice, pale skin. He wasn't brave enough to check the eyes yet.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

John couldn't stop himself from offering up his own phone for the man to use quickly.

He was already holding it out when the man did a double take and John nearly gasped. Blue, heterochromatic eyes, full of knowledge. Intelligence. A long past, even though the man who possessed them wasn't even thirty yet. A few months to go for him.

He was frozen in place even as the man smirked lightly, "Oh. Thank you."

He was stiff as a board. All that information at once. His head throbbed, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. One of the most intelligent minds John had ever dipped into. Genius observational skills. So many cases solved by him. Emotionally broken and lost on ' _sentiment'_. Mind Palace full of information. Amazing organizational skills.

He distantly heard Mike introduce him to the man.

Sherlock paused in typing and asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John froze minutely. So Sherlock was that good at what he did?

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Which one was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" he said, looking at John again.

The ex-soldier was enraptured. He had to know how Sherlock did it.

"Afghanistan. How-"

The door to the room opened and in stepped a young woman in a lab coat. In her hands was a mug of potent smelling coffee. She handed it to Sherlock who thanked her and then inquired about her lipstick.

She was obviously smitten and he knew it, but wasn't interested. John would so far as to say that he was manipulating the poor woman.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John's attention was drawn again, "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on...end. Will that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John stared. How could he have known that? He glanced at Mike, who was just grinning like he was expecting this to happen. Which meant that it was usual occurrence when Sherlock was concerned.

"Who said anything about flatmates?" asked, fishing for the information he wanted. Sherlock had to explain.

"I did! I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

As he spoke, he slipped on a large trench coat and a dark navy muffler. He was smirking.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, wanting Sherlock to elaborate what he had deduced. This was interesting.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash, I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He grinned and slipped John's phone back into his hand and moved toward the door.

John didn't want to leave it at that, He didn't have enough information. Sure he had pretty much seen all of Sherlock's life in one glance, but it wasn't completely detailed. He wanted to see these deductions skills at their best.

"Is that it?"

Sherlock paused and turned. "Is that what?"

"We only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

_Come on, come on. Live up to your self-named title, Sherlock._

"Problem?"

John once again glanced in Mike's direction, who was still smiling.

"We don't know a thing about each other," he lied easily. "I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your  _name_."

_Take that._

Sherlock was suddenly very stiff, even as a wider smirk spread across his lips. "I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John was smirking in return and he could see Sherlock tense. Apparently that wasn't an expected reaction to when Sherlock deduced someone.

"That...was amazing."

Blue eyes lightened and the consulting detective looked around a little before asking, "Really?"

"Yes. Extraordinary. How do you do that?"

"Thank you," he looked hesitant. "I'm a consulting detective. I invented the job. Whenever the police are out of their depth -which is always - they consult me."

John frowned and pointed out, "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock's mouth tightened. "When I asked you what war you participated in, you seemed surprised."

"Yes," he admitted. "How  _did_ you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. The conversation as you entered the room - said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

John nodded. Pretty simple deductions, if one knew to pay attention. "You said I had a therapist." He wanted to know how far Sherlock Holmes' skill went.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone - it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man standing before me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

He gestured to the phone, still in John's hand. "Turn it over."

John did so, seeing the gold writing.

_To: Harry Watson_

_From: Clara_

"The engraving?"

"Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara -  _who's Clara_? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it -  _he_ left  _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch."

John was nodding, letting Sherlock go on.

"You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you  _don't_ like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

"Generally, I am about a myriad of things, but about what in particular?"

Sherlock paused and a small knowing smile lit up his face as he said, "The police don't consult amateurs."

"Well I should think not, otherwise I'd worry for the city. Good to know you aren't simple. And once again,  _that was amazing_."

Sherlock glance down for a second, "Thank you. The address is 221B Baker Street, John Watson. I'll see you tomorrow."

He gave a quick wink and trialed off for the door.

John looked over to Mike and smiled, "Thank you for the introduction, Mike. I'm looking forward to this."

Mike gave a salute. "No problem, John."

* * *

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was unlike anyone John had ever met. His Mind Palace was amazing. Unlike the pain John usually felt from looking someone in the eye, he didn't feel pain with Sherlock, though the man had a lot of information stored in his brain. But it was organized and not chaotic. Sherlock obviously knew his own mind.

The 'method of loci' was nearly impossible for people to master and it was impressive that he had managed it. His command over himself was amazing. Truly, his past, present, mind, thoughts and many other things were just spectacular. John wouldn't mind being a flatmate of that man. Just to see the random things going on in his life.

And then there was the fact that Sherlock didn't give him a roaring migraine like everyone else did.

This could very well work out.

So the next evening, he met the tall man in front of 221B on Baker Street and Sherlock offered him an easy smile.

John had never hated his cane so much before. It got in the way of his bloody walking and people kept assuming he was an official invalid. It was just a reaction to stress. If he wasn't stressed, he wouldn't need it. But people giving him all these kinds of pitying looks and comments was really grating on his nerves.

Mrs. Hudson was a kind old woman and she owned 221B Baker Street. The landlady. She kept making comments about his leg and how she had a bad hip. How she understood his pain. He hated feeling useless.

Mrs. Hudson had a rather simple life with nothing too hard to sort through. Her mind was safe. Not headache inducing in the least. He liked her kind nature and willingness to help everyone. She was an amazing little old lady.

The flat was amazing and fully furnished, and Sherlock had it filled with... _things_.

_Experiments_ , was the words that flashed through his mind. Yes, Sherlock Holmes liked to experiment, he remembered seeing that yesterday.

Though he should be disgusted, he wasn't. Eyeballs, body parts that shouldn't be in certain places, a human skull above the fireplace and probably many other things hiding around the flat. They didn't bother him. He was a doctor after all.

"It's very lovely," John told the old woman.

She smiled, "Thank you dear. It has two bedrooms, that is, if you need two?"

John looked over to Sherlock, whose back was turned. Did she mean…? She meant it, didn't she?

" _Of course_  we'll need the two rooms."

"It's okay dearie, we have all sorts of things around here."

She thought that they were a gay couple. Well then. Sherlock understood where she was going, but he didn't say anything. Why not?

"It isn't really like that, Mrs. Hudson. We've only met yesterday. I still don't know much about him, though he has a strange fixation on tobacco ash."

Thank God he had on sunglasses, because he felt like dying then and there. He hadn't meant to let that slip. It was just a brief thing he'd seen in Sherlock's Mind Palace. He shouldn't have said it out loud! Bugger!

Sherlock spun around suddenly, "You read my blog."

Thankful for the glasses that hid his eyes, he shrugged, trying to play it off. "I have nothing better to do." He did not admit to reading the man's blog, though his words could be construed as such. That he did it  _because_ he had nothing better to do. Hopefully, Sherlock did not pick up the fact that he was lying.

The glint in the younger man's eyes told him that he, in fact, did.

Shite.

Sherlock did not say a thing though. Why?

John fixed Mrs. Hudson with his attention and they began to devise a payment plan and how much it would cost to rent half the flat every month. Sherlock got a text while they spoke and jumped from the sofa to put his coat and muffler on.

"A case, Mrs. Hudson! Don't wait up!"

She just smiled and moved into the kitchen.

John looked around, liking how nice the interior of the room was. Very nice indeed.

He jerked to the side when he caught sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway, staring at him.

"Can I help you?"

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

"Great way at stating the obvious," he couldn't help but answer.

Sherlock wasn't offended at least. "Any good?"

"I'm more than just a doctor you know. But I am good at  _all_ titles I hold."

Sherlock looked intrigued, but didn't question him. "Seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths?"

"Of course."

"Trouble on the field possibly?"

"Yes. Far too much to be comfortable with remembering."

"Want to see some more?"

John's head tilted and he considered it. "Yes."

"Come."

Sherlock was already out the door and down the stairs and John moved to follow him. He forgot about his leg and when he took a step he felt no pain. He stared at his cane for a second, wondering why he suddenly didn't feel like he needed it.

He did a test hop and then a few steps and decided to just leave the cane propped against the wall. Apparently, he didn't need it.

Sherlock's eyes went a little wide when John came down the stairs without the cane. "Feeling better?"

"I don't understand it either. I could suddenly move without pain or awkwardness."

Technically, he had a feeling that simpleness around Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were what made him less stressed. Being around them on a daily basis wouldn't leave him as stressed as before. If that was all it took, where had Sherlock been the last few months?

The cab ride was silent, until Sherlock asked suddenly, "Did I get it all right?"

"Hm?"

"About your brother and why you don't go to him for help and his marriage?"

"Harry and I do not get on and Harry walked out on Clara, devastated her dearly. Harry has been drinking for years and is violent because of it. Clara was tolerant but when Harry made an irreversible mistake, she had enough."

Sherlock nodded and looked out the window. "Spot on then. I must admit, I didn't expect to be right about everything."

John smirked and chuckled, drawing Sherlock's attention. "What?" the consulting detective asked.

" _Harry_  is short for 'Harriet'."

The dark-haired man's left eye twitched. "Harry's your  _sister_ ," he stated. "A sister! There's always something," he mumbled with an eye roll.

"You had everything else perfectly though. And one mistake doesn't make you any less extraordinary."

Sherlock was not a person who was used to compliments, because he flushed for the third time after hearing John's kind words and murmured his gratitude, softly.

The rest of the ride was passed in silence and when they arrived at the scene that Sherlock was looking for, there were police cars everywhere.

A dark-skinned woman approached them when they came close enough and greeted Sherlock in a very rude manner. She called him a 'freak', which John did not appreciate. Sherlock called her by last name. Against his better judgement, he found himself looking into her eyes to see what had caused her to become such a spiteful bitch. Nothing at all really. Sally Donovan. She was just born that way. Pity. She was jealous of how much better Sherlock was at doing  _her_ job. Pathetic. Although he did find out that she was having an affair with one of her fellow members on the force. Anderson,  _who was married_.

As though he were called, a man with a severely long, pointed and flattish nose, dressed in a blue scrub like uniform, appeared by the woman's side and joined in on the insults. Anderson, married, wife was away on a business trip. He was having an affair with the woman standing next to him. If his rumpled hair and the indentation from kneeling on a carpet which was still on her knees were enough to go by in just physical facts. Never mind what disturbing things he'd seen in their heads.

"It's a crime scene. Do not contaminate it, freak."

Before he could even think of holding back, John was speaking.

"I don't think Sherlock is the one you need to worry about when it comes to making a mess of things. Coincidentally, does your wife know about the mess  _you two_  made earlier?"

"What?!" both snapped, though he could see worry in their eyes.

John shrugged, almost nonchalant, "I mean, what else could you both have been doing  _alone in his house_  while his wife is away?"

He turned to Sherlock to say something, but remembered what else he wanted to add and turned to Donovan and quickly stated, "At least you chose a carpet this time. Hardwood flooring is bad on the knees, you know."

He then gave Sherlock his full attention, "Shall we?"

Sherlock was looking at him in shock, but nodded slowly and gestured for him to follow.

"How did you know about their affair?" he asked lowly when they were far enough away.

"Their appearances speak volumes. She was also wearing his deodorant."

"Quite right," Sherlock nodded. "Impressive. Maybe I've misjudged you, John Watson."

"Maybe you shouldn't judge people before you get to know them."

"Hm."

Into the house they went. John met DI Lestrade. Hard working and relatively intelligent. Early forties, liked Sherlock, helped him out of a drug abuse situation a few years prior. Generally the only person in the force who actually liked Sherlock and appreciated his help, no matter how caustic the consulting detective could be.

Good man.

Sherlock proceeded to amaze John for what seemed to be the millionth time.

He couldn't hold back the low, "That's fantastic."

Sherlock turned to him and leaned in to whisper, "You do that out loud. You do know that, right?"

John flushed, "I'll stop."

"No, it's…..fine," Sherlock smiled a little.

Sherlock was a young man subconsciously starved for praise. Easy to see, if one bothered to even look.

The man muttered to himself and John caught his eyes on one turn of the pacing. Sherlock was intending to leave instantly and take a cab to find the woman's bag, which he had somehow deduced she had. This was a normal Sherlock reaction, not telling people about his plans and just waltzing out.

Sherlock disappeared in a moment and John stayed behind to speak with Lestrade about a few things concerning Sherlock.'

Lestrade had full confidence in Sherlock. Lestrade knew Sherlock would solve everything by the morning. He thought of Sherlock as a little brother, though would never tell the man that. He also asked if John was going to be coming with Sherlock more often. He couldn't give a straight answer, because Sherlock had asked him on a whim.

When their talk was finished, John made his way from the building.

Donovan couldn't help but make a snarky remark about Sherlock leaving him behind.

"I know. Sherlock is on to something and he needs absolute silence to completely put the facts together." This was truth. John had seen it in his mind. "Perhaps you should get to know him before assuming, it makes you look foolish."

"Okay look,  _John-_ "

"That is  _Brigadier General John H. Watson_ , to  _you_ , Sergeant Donovan," he interrupted in his most authoritative voice. Her eyes went wide suddenly and he was sure her dark skin paled. Pulling rank was always fun on new recruits and though he was retired from military service indefinitely, he still had the presence of an army man and knew how to use it.

"Good evening to you."

He turned and made his way to the main road in order to catch a cab. He needed to get his cane. Good thing he didn't have many possessions. It should only take one bag. Maybe he wouldn't need a cane after all.

As he walked, he noticed a black car had begun to follow him. He sighed, knowing where this was going and wanting to get it over with quickly. He paused in his stride and turned around to approach the now stopped vehicle.

He tapped on the glass and sighed when it moved down, "Either you tell me what you want, young lady or piss off."

She was a mildly attractive, though he'd seen better. She was also very offended by his lack in manners when addressing her. There was a Blackberry in her hand, obviously used often from how the keypad was barely visible. She worked for a man named Mycroft Holmes, who was Sherlock's older brother by seven years. She was ordered to bring John to a secluded location where Mycroft would then badger him for information about his relationship with his younger brother. An unconventional way of going about it, but a way nonetheless.

He sighed again, "Just unlock the door so we can get this over with. Your boss should really just ask Sherlock himself what's going on in his life."

Wide eyes again.

He got in the car and they made their way to their destination silently.

The man waiting for him was every bit of British that other people would assume Brits should be. And he had an umbrella.

"You could have just phoned me or something, instead of assigning the assistant to shadow me for five blocks."

Mycroft Holmes is creepier in person than in memory. He's dark and willing to do anything for his brother and his country. Sherlock calls him, 'the British Government' and it isn't a joking matter. Mycroft basically is, the government. He's hard and a much more strict version of Sherlock, but not as brilliant in the deduction department. Though he could deduce easily enough, he always had knowledge on the people he was picking apart, whereas Sherlock went in blind every time.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one needs to be discreet. Why don't you take a seat, I know you have a leg problem."

"I'm fine with standing as you can clearly see, Mr. Holmes."

Blue eyes, not quite like Sherlock's, narrow minutely. "You don't seem very afraid," he commented.

"You aren't frightening. Creepy and a bit of a stalker, but not frightening."

Mycroft let out a strained laugh, which John easily noticed. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier."

The doctor shook his head, "No not bravery. Knowledge of facts. I've trained for years in combat, whereas you prefer to sit behind a desk all day. I am stronger and faster than you. I could kill you in three intricately different ways before your assistant or the driver can pull their weapons on me.  _That_ is why you aren't a threat, Mycroft Holmes."

John could see it. Even with the advanced darkness from his glasses, he could see the fear in those eyes. Mycroft was brilliant at keeping a straight face, yes, but his eyes spoke everything about him and he was truly afraid.

"What is your connection to Sherlock?"

"I'm moving in with him."

"You only met him yesterday and now you're moving in with him. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"If you're so interested, ask your brother. Though I'm not too sure he'd tell you or even want his archenemy's presence in his life."

"So clearly he trusts you enough to take you with him on cases and tell you about his life."

"Not exactly. I can't do what Sherlock does, but I have my  _own_ method of learning about people. You're rather like an open book."

"I can see the attraction. Just like Sherlock, you  _love_ to be dramatic."

John's eyes rolled as he glanced around meaningfully, "Well thank God,  _you're_ above all that."

His mobile beeped and he looked at the text, from Sherlock. Why did Sherlock have his number? Did he check for it yesterday?

**Baker Street.**

**Come at once**

**if convenient.**

**SH**

"Do hope I'm not  _distracting_ you," Mycroft sneered, pleasant tone gone.

"Well, your hope is dashed, you are. So, should I agree to tell you about Sherlock's day-to-day life or not? That is the question here."

Mycroft did not voice his question, but John knew he was confused on how he could know. Very few times did John enjoy using his odd ability to wind people up. But this was hilarious.

"You and your little brother did not have a good childhood when you were together and while you do care about him, you have an odd way of showing it. Though I don't understand why you even need my assistance when you have connections beyond what most could imagine."

"Will you agree to watch Sherlock for me and give me weekly updates about his behavior and whereabouts, or not?"

John though about what he learned about Sherlock by meeting his eyes. A lot really. Sherlock wouldn't be offended by such a thing, because he could see the financial gain from it. Using that money for something necessary like the rent would be beneficial and save both of them money. And it would count because it would be information on Sherlock being passed through John. Both of them at once really. Yes, that could work.

"Fine. I'll just use it for rent. I don't need extra money but it would be better than to waste it on trivial objects. And really, all for watching your brother like a sitter. Your suggested payment plan?"

* * *

John appeared in 221B about an hour later, after stopping at his apartment to pick up his gun first, to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa with his hands folded on his chest.

"Your brother needs a better hobby," he comment as he walked through the open doorway.

Sherlock sat up instantly, looking at John with intrigued eyes. "Mycroft told you who he was?"

"No. I'm just smarter than people give me credit for. Not only did I shock him, I terrified all at the same time."

Blue eyes narrowed, " _You_  managed to strike fear into Mycroft?"

"Yes. He seemed to think that his position makes him indestructible, but he was poorly mistaken. He commented on my lack of fear of the situation and when I told him that he wasn't frightening in the least, he scoffed and called it 'soldier's bravery'," John's eyes rolled at the immediate memory. "I simply reminded him that he was only a foot away from a man who was a member of the armed forces for more than a decade. I reminded him that I had seen combat several times and came out alive each time. I also pointed out that while I am disadvantaged because of height, I'm stronger and faster than him and could kill him in three intricate ways before the assistant or driver could react. He's good at keeping his face controlled, but eyes are the windows to the soul and he was terrified to realize such a grievous miscalculation."

Sherlock's interest was caught. John could see it in his eyes. An entire list of questions was drawn up instantly and Sherlock was busy searching for which one to ask first.

"Did he threaten you?"

"He didn't get to. I took up most of his time by reminding him that if he tried anything, I could kill him. I'd even use his umbrella to do it."

"What did he want besides that?"

John could see that Sherlock already knew and decided on no lying.

"He's paying me to weekly tell him about how you're doing. I figured this could be used for rent instead of our own cash," he said, producing an envelope with the funds inside. "More than enough if paid four times a month, to handle the money for the flat monthly, plus any possible problems that could occur."

"Most people would assume I would be offended and deny such a thing. Why not you?"

John shrugged and placed the money on the coffee table. "I can't  _Sherlock_ people like you do, but I have my own way to pick them apart. You wouldn't be offended because you would be able to see the economic value unlike others. Sentiment isn't your thing and that is why you aren't currently offended that I accepted his offer."

Sherlock's head was tilted to the side and he was giving John a very thorough once over. Cataloging everything about him. John could see it all flashing through the man's eyes. Everything he had taken note of, on an extremely long piece of mental parchment, written in perfect script. John nearly sighed a how lovely Sherlock's mind was. Why couldn't everyone be so well-coordinated?

Sherlock shook himself off and stood. "I found something when I disappeared suddenly. You weren't too offended, correct?"

"Do you actually care about whether or not I was offended or whether or not you'll hear me whining about it in the future?" John countered, making the taller man freeze, with his hand dangling over the side of the seat.

Sherlock locked eyes with him and said, "Much more observant than I predicted."

He fished out the pink case from the side of the chair and placed it on the table between them.

"Let me guess, you found it in an alley or a rubbish chute of some sort?"

Sherlock stared and nodded slowly, "That's all you have to say? Perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."

"I know."

"How?"

"You gave this whole list of things to explain about her. Even going so far to explain how she was wet, had a trunk of her own, walked through mud and the like. None of this applies to you. You are clean and the creases in your clothing explain you've worn them for several hours- so you couldn't have changed quickly - and she was only dead for a couple of hours. You are dry everywhere, your clothing is perfectly clean, no mud. You said she was in Cardiff but you were at Barts all day, you still smell of the lab if you were wondering. It couldn't have been you."

Sherlock's mind produced a sudden need. He wanted to see John's eyes.

"Remove your glasses."

John shrugged and did so, blinking in the light as it affected the cornea.

"Your eyesight is fine, but you choose to wear protective coverings such as Ballistic Eyewear, U.S. Army APEL version. Expensive. Probably the most expensive thing you've ever purchased for yourself. You use them not for the fact that you're expecting possible low damage near your eyes, but because they come with a clip on shade. You told Mike you get migraines, meaning you block out the light with your fancy glasses and no other reason. But why do you even get migraines in the first place?"

John's brow arched and he smiled, "Stress. So much stress and useless information just adding on to my everyday life. It's annoying. I'm so used to wearing them, I just don't take them off, ever. It's been months. Besides sleeping and cleansing, I don't remove them and I see no need to."

He placed them back on, sliding them up the bridge of his nose, until they reached their usual place.

Mismatched blue eyes narrowed, but Sherlock didn't question him.

"You are a strange one. Others wouldn't be taking everything so lightly."

"Well, I'm not 'others'." John then smirked, "Besides, I've been out to war. You can see some very fucked up things in a foxhole, the barracks or even in a simple bunk. You never know what will happen. What  _you_ do, compared to what  _I_  used to do, doesn't phase me in the least."

Sherlock was looking the bag over. "Why was an army  _doctor_ out on the field anyway?"

"Why not be out on the field? Being a doctor doesn't excuse me from the hard work. I was also a Medical Support Officer. I forced my way into learning what the others did. I couldn't just sit back in the much safer environment while others were out there, risking their lives. I learned to fight, to shoot, to dig a foxhole and  _many_ other things. I've been on raids, been nearly blown apart by suicide bombers and even traveled through a minefield on foot without detonating a thing. And I wouldn't think of taking any of it back, because my actions were a great help.  _And all of my men came back alive_."

He was sure and resolute. He knew most doctors wouldn't bother learning about how to shoot a proper firearm or even leave the 'safety' of their tent, but he wasn't them. He couldn't just sit back. So he doubled his studies and training, so that he could be a help no matter where he was. That was how he made it so high in the military.

"Strong sense of morals and loyalty. Rare to find such, even in a military man. I have a feeling that this arrangement between us will go a lot better than I assumed."

John could see what Sherlock was thinking. He'd created an entire room in his Mind Palace, completely dedicated to John Watson and finding out everything about him. Sherlock's interest was caught on John and he intended to spend his free time just observing John and his actions. Okay then, John could handle that.

"So what have you found out about this horribly pink bag?"

"On my desk, there's a number. I need you to send a text with your mobile."

John frowned, "And who is this text going to?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"You think the murderer has the phone."

"How is it that you can understand the meaning in my words when I give no clues and yet all of Scotland Yard are at a loss even when the answer is blaring in their faces?"

"Because most people take everything for face value and don't bother to look underneath the underneath."

John fetched the number and message and sent the text with a sigh.

"It's done."

Sherlock nodded and continued to search the trunk. "I checked every back alley within a five-minute radius of the woman's body. Every one big enough for a small car to fit through of course. Then all of the places where someone could get rid of something easily without being noticed. A trunk like this could easily draw attention and it could only have taken the killer up to five minutes to realize he had it."

Sherlock's eyes were wide as he stared at the case. "Do you see what is missing?"

John looked at the tag quickly and then regretfully ruffled through the case itself. "The phone isn't in here." It was a guess, but really, what else did he have to go on? He wasn't Sherlock.

"You paid attention." This was said with a certain level of shock and awe that had John looking at the younger man questioningly.

"Yes, it's only polite."

Sherlock scoffed, "Niceties bore me and are so trivial. But you noticed that there is no phone. And that is why I had you send the text, because the murderer  _has_ the phone somehow. She planted it on him."

John looked from the case to Sherlock and back a few times, before shaking his head and saying simply, "Fascinating."

Another flush from the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and began mumbling to himself. He then grinned and reached for his coat.

"You aren't about to go and do something stupid now, are you?" John asked, standing.

"I never do stupid things, John. Do keep up."

"Have you bothered to tell DI Lestrade about any of this or have you just laid there thinking all this through and doing nothing about it?"

Sherlock paused in putting on his coat and gave John a look and in those heterochromatic eyes, John could see the man reevaluating his earlier assessment of John being an idiot.

"No need to question my intelligence, like that. It would just be more prudent for you to inform the man as soon as possible, unless they take your need to work this out on your own, the wrong way. Withholding this trunk from the authorities could get you into unnecessary trouble and I don't believe your brother will be thrilled about having to bail you out."

Sherlock's mad thoughts suddenly came to halt and he appraised John intensely. "While you have a good point, four people are dead and I don't have time to regale to Lestrade all the gory details. You coming?"

"Yes. You'll do something stupid, whether you'll acknowledge it as foolish or not, means nothing. You're the kind of person to chase danger blindly because it's on whim and not realize what you've gotten into until things get egregious and dangerous."

The offended look that overcame Sherlock's face was priceless, but John wasn't going to take his words back. From what he had seen in Sherlock's mind and his past, this was something he did often and got into deadly situations often. John wasn't one to let someone go into danger by themselves. If he managed to bring an entire brigade back alive, he could definitely keep Sherlock Holmes safe, right?

"Well then, alright."

Sherlock stalked from the room and John hurried after him, making sure to close the door as he did.

Sherlock did not hail a hack and chose to just walk. The destination he had John text to the woman's phone, was where they were headed it seemed.

"Do you like Italian?"

"As in the language, the food, the nationality, throw me a bone here."

"Food," Sherlock smirked lightly.

"Yes."

"Good."

A little more walking and Sherlock led him into a very small restaurant with a clear view of a three-way intersection.

John situated himself in the seat near the window, with his back against the side of the sill, not actually facing the window. It wasn't a good thing to leave such an opening in a place he had never been before.

His left leg came up to rest on the seat slightly, bent over his right which was on the floor. Sherlock noticed what he was doing and smiled approvingly.

A man appeared by their table, tall and a little heavy-set. John didn't look him in the eye, but could tell from his smile that he was happy to see Sherlock.

"Sherlock, anything you want, it's on the house. Free for you and your date."

John looked up at the man and then at Sherlock and said, "We're not on a date."

He was ignored, though he did notice that Sherlock didn't make a comment about it.

"John, this is Angelo, the owner. Angelo, this is Dr. John Watson, my new flatmate."

The man smiled, "This man got me off a murder charge. I owe him everything."

Sherlock shrugged and continued to look out the window, "Three years ago, triple murder and the facts 'apparently' pointed to Angelo when truly, he was all the way across the city, break and entering. I wasn't him."

Angelo was grinning and handed John a menu. "Just holler when you need something."

John waited a second before asking, "Are you homosexual or asexual?"

Sherlock did a double take and looked at John in confusion. "What?"

"He assumed that we are on a date and you did nothing to dissuade his assumptions. So, either you're gay and have nothing against people knowing, you don't care at all, or you're asexual. I can tell from how you act that women don't appeal to you in the least, so which one is it? It's okay to be homosexual by the way."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock stated. "Women aren't really my area. I haven't considered men in the least. You should know that I consider myself married to my work and though I am flattered at your apparent interest, I-"

"I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"All the signs point to-"

"Then you're reading them incorrectly. I am not gay, I am however, bisexual. Anyway, my question stems from the fact that if I start seeing a bloke some time in the future, I don't want it to make anything awkward between us."

Sherlock was frozen in his seat and said, "So, you aren't trying to pick me up?"

"Not in the least."

"Oh."

John could see the faint flicker of doubt and uncertainty in Sherlock's gaze. The man was also a little disheartened, which gave John the answer he needed. Sherlock Holmes was attracted to blokes, though he had never been with one. John admitting to not thinking of him like that, made his ego die a little.

"Not that you aren't attractive or anything, but we don't know each other well enough for me to attempt to flirt with you. Give it a month and maybe."

Hope kindled in those blue eyes. Though Sherlock didn't want to admit to feeling anything that related to  _sentiment_ , he was actually a very emotional and self doubting person. And the whole, starved for attention thing fed in with it.

"Well then, okay."

Sherlock turned back to the window and John ordered a simple cuppa, not wanting to eat anything heavy at such a time in the evening. It was dark out and technically, he'd have been in bed by that time. He didn't want to break his habit.

After a few moment, Sherlock motioned to the window. "There. A taxi has stopped, but nobody is getting out. Why a taxi?"

John glanced back one and turned to face his cup again. If this had any significance in Sherlock's case, it wouldn't do good for both of them to stare. That drew attention. In the field, such things were bad ideas and with a serial killer on the loose, it was  _still_ a bad idea.

"That's clever," Sherlock stated suddenly, head beginning to move from side to side in minuscule twitches. John knew it wasn't anything bad, the younger man was just excited at the prospect of finding the killer. Still, he looked positively barmy, moving like that.

"Is he clever? Why is he clever?"

John shrugged and finished his tea in time to catch up with Sherlock, who had grabbed his coat and was already out he door. John followed soundlessly.

Just as Sherlock fixed his collar, the taxi began to pull away and he leapt forward.

John registered Sherlock jumping high enough to slid across the bonnet of an oncoming car and landing safely in order to break into a run. John had been right behind him the whole way, easy vaulting over the vehicle with an extra spring from placing his hand on the hot bonnet. He too landed just fine and sprinted after the consulting detective.

As the hack got away, he filed the numbers away for later.

"I've got the cab number," he said as he stopped beside Sherlock, who was holding his heads tightly.

"Shush."

He then looked up suddenly and began running again, "This way!"

John followed easy and couldn't help but be impressed with how Sherlock had memorized the streets of London. It was amazing and he had to bite his lip to keep from giving another compliment. Not when Sherlock was so into his zone of things.

Through alleys and up and down fire escapes. Across rooftops. Sherlock was like a bloody circus performer with all the leaps and how easily he scaled the fences.

It was like advanced Parkour. John was pretty good at it, even at the age of thirty-three. Sherlock was amazing though. He wasn't even winded and he was a civilian. John was a soldier, so it was easy to explain why he wasn't huffing, but Sherlock had impressed him with his physical fitness.

When they finally caught up to the vehicle, it turned out that the man wasn't anyone special and was new to the city and Sherlock was particularly angry about being wrong.

When they were a safe distance from the cab, John turned to Sherlock and asked, "Where did you get that?" He motioned to the card the man had flashed while explaining to the man who he supposedly was.

"I picked Lestrade's pockets. I do it when he's annoying me. You can keep it, I have plenty at the flat."

John looked down at the card and couldn't help but snort. Sherlock was one hell of a funny bloke. He just picks people's pockets when they annoy him and admits to it like there's nothing wrong.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're so intriguing though."

Before Sherlock could comment, they both hear a door open and see the man from the cab talking to a  _real_ officer.

"We should probably get out of here," John suggested.

"Exactly as I was thinking."

They ran for it.

Making it back to 221B wasn't a problem and both men were giggling like school girls when they made it to the entryway.

"Besides charging an excessively armed enemy with only a fishing knife, that was the second most ridiculous thing I have ever done," he breathed, leaning against the wall for support.

Sherlock snorted, "Only the second? Invading Afghanistan doesn't factor in there anywhere?"

More giggles. "It wasn't just me."

Mrs. Hudson appeared while they were still getting over the adrenaline high of running through the city.

She looked worried and Sherlock called her name inquiringly. She motioned to the stairs and simply said, "Upstairs."

The men shared a look and Sherlock took the steps two at a time.

Sherlock was angry as he slammed open the door to reveal Lestrade and his men, going through his flat.

"Why did you break into my flat?" he asked in a low, dangerous tone.,

"Drugs bust," Lestrade shrugged.

John couldn't let that one go and had to step in when he saw something in Lestrade's eyes. "Have you proper clearance to enter someone's home without permission?"

Lestrade's face went blank suddenly and Donovan appeared from the kitchen and sneered, "We're the police, we don't need permission."

John huffed an humorless laugh, "Actually, being part of the local authorities does not give you the right to do whatever you want whenever you want. Unless you have the proper form of affidavit given by a licensed magistrate, you have no right to be here and this is considered breaking and entering. You do not have a Police Dog with you and all of you here do not work in the department that specializes in doing drug busts. You are breaking and entering and if you don't explain why you are here, we have the right to report you, request the assistance of a solicitor and institute legal proceedings that could very well lead to many of you becoming impoverished.

I tell you now. I fought for my country and was injured in the line of duty. I do not appreciate this for all of my efforts and the efforts of my men."

Lestrade floundered and apparently couldn't respond. He had no clue what to say.

"You can't do that, Watson," Donovan snapped, though he could see she looked worried.

"Sergeant Donovan, you will refer to me as  _Brigadier General Watson_ , are we clear?!"

His tone left room for no argument and he enjoyed how she jumped and stiffened. Her eyes moved around frantically, looking for something to change subject. A picture of the money envelope he got from Mycroft earlier, entered her mind.

"What about that huh? That much money doesn't just appear and the Freak doesn't have any other jobs?"

"That is mine."

Lestrade finally came to his senses and asked, "Why would it be here?"

"I live here."

The man paled, "Since when?"

"Since earlier this evening. Before I even  _met_ you, I had already signed the lease. You're invading the official home of an army veteran."

"That doesn't explain where that much money came from!" Donovan insisted.

John rolled his eyes and removed his glasses so the woman could see the glare he was giving her. "Not that it's any of your business but I am doing some side jobs for Sherlock's older brother. He's what you would consider a selective participant in certain issues."

Sherlock, who had remained silent, in complete awe of John, snorted suddenly. "I wish you'd say that to his face. No one has ever called him 'lazy' in such a way."

John smirked in response, before turning back to Donovan. "You'd be surprised how many rights normal civilians hold. You'd also be surprised at how many civilians don't know their basic rights. I however, know my rights very well and I will do everything I have listed if one of you does not speak. Oh, and as you concede to my demands, you will also be cleaning up the mess you made and replacing anything destroyed because Anderson and Donovan obviously get off on destroying people's property. The rest of you, will make sure this flat in clean."

Lestrade was gaping at him, but did not refute his claims or orders. The surrounding officers were looking at John in horror.

"So, do I call my solicitor or are you going to answer me?"

The DI's hands went up and he motioned to his people, "Begin cleaning! Anderson, Donovan, start taking inventory of what you have destroyed, it's coming out of your paychecks!"

There were grumblings and cursings but he yelled for them to start and they scrambled to follow orders.

"I knew Sherlock would find the case and I needed a reason to get to it."

"You couldn't even get a warrant? You just assumed that he wouldn't know about his basic rights? You think that because people are so blind to what's in front of them, you have a right to do what you want without repercussions?"

The man didn't answer.

"I won't start a lawsuit, just because you are the only person in the force who seems to appreciate was Sherlock does for you."

Just as Lestrade was sighing in relief, he added, "I will however, file a formal complaint under my military status to make a point."

"Dammit."

Anderson decided to butt in then. "None of this matters, we found the case and according to  _someone_ , 'the murderer has the case' and we found it in the flat of our favorite psychopath!"

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!"

With an amused smile, John gestured to Sherlock and let him take over the questioning.

Sherlock was like the bad cop in old movies. No good cop at all. He was swift in responding and even faster at putting people down.

Mrs. Hudson came in and mentioned that the cab they had called for, the one with the number that John had memorized was outside. Sherlock ignored her. John decided to explain why the police were even there.

Sherlock was arguing with Lestrade about what 'Rachel' could mean. The DI explained that Rachel was the woman's daughter who never had a chance to be born. Sherlock expressed confusion over why it would bother her now, fourteen years down the road.

Everyone looked at him in worry. Everyone but John. He at least understood why Sherlock didn't understand it.

The consulting detective looked around warily and leaned into John to ask lowly, "Not good?"

"A bit not good. Sentiment," he said, like that explained everything and for Sherlock, it did.

"Oh."

John slipped his glasses back on and waited out Sherlock's moment of talking to himself. He then froze in place and demanded that everyone shut up because he needed to think.

"Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off!"

John snorted. Obviously Sherlock was capable of getting revenge for the rude behavior just well on his own.

Anderson was ordered to turn around and Sherlock began to mumble, holding his head much like he had done when searching his mind for a way to intercept the cab.

"Oh! She was clever! John, do you know why she was clever?"

Even John couldn't come up with something. "She left a hint scratched on the floor with her nails?" he guessed.

"Yes! I'm surprised that you knew where I was going. Good show! It's Rachel! John, check the trunk and tell me the email address."

As John fumbled to do so, Sherlock looked around a gave a laugh, "Look at you all, you're so vacant. God what is it like in your silly little brains? It must be so boring, not being me!"

John read off the email and Sherlock grinned and sat in his chair, pulling up a site on his open laptop.

Sherlock explained that the woman had a smartphone and by accessing her email, which had the password set to, 'Rachel' they could use the GPS in the phone to track the killer because whoever it was, had it on them.

Sherlock stood to get his coat on, while he waited for the map to come up. Lestrade was trying to get how Sherlock someone found the information, but the younger man was being obtuse.

John took a seat in the now vacant chair and his brows drew together when it showed where the phone currently was.

"Sherlock?" he called slowly.

He repeated the word again, until Sherlock appeared by his side.

"It's here. It says it's right here at 221B, but how?"

Mrs. Hudson reminded them of the cab that was still waiting downstairs.

Anderson made a snide remark, Sherlock told him to cease speaking because he lowered the IQ of the entire block that way. John had to give Sherlock points for originality.

When no sound came from the man, John turned to see Sherlock gazing vacantly into the stairwell, past Mrs. Hudson.

"I need to get some air to clear my mind. Try to keep the noise to a dull roar at least."

Sherlock flounder from the flat with a purposeful stride.

Mrs. Hudson followed him after a wave at John.

"Why does he need air?" Lestrade asked rhetorically.

John shrugged, "Maybe Anderson put him off again."

Said man did not appreciate his snide humor and he could care less.

A few minutes of force members still cleaning the flat, passed. John smirked in their direction, causing them to scowl.

There was beep from the laptop and John looked over to see the marker suddenly moving. The phone was moving away from Baker Street and had just turned a corner. The bloody hell?

Mrs. Hudson appeared, "I think Sherlock went for a ride. He took the cab! He seemed to know the cabbie quite well too."

It hit John suddenly he cursed aloud, scaring the wits out of everyone.

"Sherlock figured it out!"

"What?" Lestrade asked looking lost.

"As we were out walking earlier, he narrowed it down to a person who is constantly in the public eye, but is easily overlooked. Someone you'd trust even though you've never met or seen them before. We shadowed a cab and I even memorized the number and we called for that cab to come here. It's the one that was waiting outside. Sherlock pulled up the GPS on the phone and it said it was here at 221B, but now Sherlock has gone away,  _in a cab_ , and the phone is moving away from Baker Street at a speed faster than most can run. A person you wouldn't pay attention to who can easily pick up victims and get away with them without people noticing. It's the  _cabbie_ and Sherlock's so bloody stupid and full of his observational abilities, he went with the man willingly!"

"Are you serious?" Lestrade asked, mouth agape.

"This isn't a joking matter. The idiot wants to learn how it's done, so he went willingly."

Lestrade began calling out orders and the officers rushed from the building and John rushed after, grabbing the laptop on his way.

He had never sat in the front seat of a cop car before and with Lestrade's driving, he hoped he never had to ever again.

They stopped at two identical buildings with no indication of which they had entered. The cab was parked between them.

"I'll take the one on the right," John said, pulling out his gun. "And I'm licensed to carry, so don't worry."

He was in before Lestrade could respond, stalking the halls like a panther. A familiar ease came over him, like he'd done it before, and he had. Retrieval missions were always the most interesting. Like James Bond on steroids and absolutely no getting caught was allowed.

He went from room to room. Checking carefully, until he came upon a room on the fourth floor, with a large window in the back, that gave perfect view to the window in the other building. Where in a semi lit room, stood an old cabbie and Sherlock. Both were holding something small in their hands and Sherlock looked ready to swallow whatever it was.

John approached the window cautiously. Sherlock's back was to him, but the old man would be able to see him just fine. He'd have to be fast. Thank God he was an expert marksman.

Sherlock's hand moved and John couldn't take it. He slipped from the side of the wall, took aim and fired. The bullet went right through the window and into the other, sailing over Sherlock's right shoulder and hitting the old cabbie right in the  _left_ shoulder, a little above the heart.

Sherlock jumped and spun around, getting close to the window to peer through the small hole the bullet had created.

John waved happily from his place and motioned downstairs with his hand. Sherlock looked back at the man and then to John and nodded.

Outside, Sherlock was immediately hailed by EMTs and John explained to Lestrade about why he had to shoot the cabbie. Sherlock and the cabbie were about to swallow some unknown substance and he couldn't take the chance. The man didn't blame him.

Sherlock sat on the back of the ambulance, pouting. Over his shoulders was a bright range shock blanket. Lestrade and John moved closer and he glared at the DI, "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me!"

"It's for shock," the cop explained.

"I'm not in shock!"

"Yeah, some of the guys want to take photographs," Lestrade smirked.

Sherlock huffed.

"Care to explain why you went off on your own?"

Sherlock's eyes went a little wide and he looked up at John for a second, before looking back to the DI and saying, "I'm not really feeling up to it at the moment."

"What? I've got questions for you!"

"And I've got a blanket, which means that I'm in shock!"

John had to bit his lips to refrain from laughing to the look on Lestrade's face.

"Fine. But you're coming by the station tomorrow to give a testimony."

Sherlock stood and nodded. "Glad that we're on the same page. Come, John."

He flounced away, obviously expecting John to follow.

He did.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked.

"Starving."

"There's a good Chinese restaurant a block from 221B that stays open until two in the morning. We can go there."

"Sure. Your brother is here."

"Of course he is."

Mycroft Holmes and his assistant stood by a black car, both waiting patiently.

"Well look at you two. Just moving in an already solving crimes together!"

John cleared his throat, "Sherlock did all the solving. I just stopped him from being an idiot."

"It was a calculated risk," Sherlock insisted.

"A fancy way for saying  _foolish_."

Mycroft looked back and forth between the grinning men. His brows were drawn together.

"So friendly, you are."

"Life or death situations do that for you," John pointed out casually.

"Yes," Mycroft sneered. "Leg work isn't really my forte."

"Selective participant," John coughed into his fist, refusing to look at the man.

Sherlock giggled into his hand and fixed his brother a smug look. "At least  _my assistant_  is interesting. I can't say the same about yours."

"It's this sort of attitude that upsets Mummy."

Sherlock was overcome with offense. "'Upsets'?  _I'm_ not the one who upsets her! At least I answer her calls and if I don't, it's because of a case! You're the one who ignores her and she knows it!"

Mycroft's eyes rolled, "You simply don't understand the position I am in."

"Yes, the sitting-behind-your-desk-all-day position must be exhausting for you. Please, do cry me a river, Mycroft."

They bickered like children and John laughed lightly. "You two are something else. Much like my sister and I. We hide our feelings for one another with arguing."

"' _Feelings_ '," Mycroft shuddered.

" _Sentiment_ ," Sherlock's nose wrinkled.

"You both care and you know it."

"Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft said quickly and John understood that it was most likely something he had repeated in the past. Many times over.

"If so then neither is, 'worrying', which is a form of  _caring_ , for your little brother, an advantage."

He didn't respond.

Sherlock hummed and started walking away, "Good evening, Mycroft. Come, John!"

John followed after and smiled when Sherlock finally removed the shock blanket.

"You can have it. Heavy duty and all," he said, shoving it into John's arms.

"A gift for your flatmate, how  _sentimental_ of you, Sherlock!"

"Oh, shut it."

John smirked and shook his head.

If every day with Sherlock Holmes would be like this, he wouldn't have a problem from that day forward.

Let the fun begin.

**A/N: First one is done.**

**How was it? Let me know in a constructive , respectful manner please? If you are rude or you flame me, do not expect a good response. Treat others how you wish to be treated. Assholes don't deserve kindness, remember that.**

**See ya!**


	2. Getting Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blind Banker, BAMF John style :) Different ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some cute Johnlock moments ahead.

**A/N: Hello, people!**

**I don't own Sherlock. Quotes from the show aren't mine.**

**I have no beta.**

**ENJOY!**

John Hamish Watson stood in front of his flatmate - two months already - with an embarrassed look on his face. Never before in his life had he ever felt so, exposed and ridiculous. But the circumstances that lead him to standing in the middle of their flat without grocery bags hanging off his arms like they were supposed to be, was simply pathetic.

Sherlock glanced over the top of his book to cock a brow in his direction.

"You took your time."

John's flush became a morbid shade of puce. He wrinkled his nose and looked down at the floor, wishing that the bloody thing would just swallow him up.

" _Yeah_ ," he began slowly, wondering how he could word the next few sentences without sounding like imbecile. There was no other way that he could come up with. "I didn't get the shopping."

"What?" Sherlock asked, lowering his book a little to give himself a better view of the flustered doctor. "Why not?"

Summoning up the courage he didn't feel he had, John answered, "Because I had a  _row_...in the shop...with the chip and pin machine!"

A smile broke out across Sherlock's lips and he asked in a very disbelieving tone, "You…..you had a  _row_ with a machine?"

John sighed and looked away from those eyes that were laughing at him. Yes, inside, Sherlock was laughing his fine arse off. It really wasn't funny.

"Sort of," he answered. "It sat there and I shouted abuse at it."

He sighed again, "Anyway, have you got cash?"

Sherlock stared for another minute, causing John to groan.

"Stop laughing at me! I know you don't want to risk your appearance as a man unaffected by emotions and all but even I can tell that you are dying of laughter on the inside and I do not appreciate you poking fun and my problem! Those machines are just horrid!"

Sherlock did not rise to his words but a question of how John knew what he was thinking, flitted through his mind.

"Never mind that, take my card."

With a huff, the doctor moved to do so, hoping that there would be no complications this time around.

There weren't.

Still, an unneeded trip all because the damn machine couldn't do what it was created for!

As he placed the groceries in the available spaces in the fridge and cupboards, he hummed a little tune to himself, remembering the last time he'd sung in front of people. Small celebration on his birthday about four years prior. Some of the men had pitched in for him and they had a small karaoke gathering, demonstrating songs from their homes and reminiscing about their childhoods. Good times.

He finished putting everything away and moved into the living area, when he noticed something.

"Is that my laptop?"

"Yes."

Sherlock was using his laptop, but for what exactly?

"Why?"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

John huffed, "Are you sure you aren't the one who's selectively participant in certain things?"

Sherlock sent him a mildly offended look. "Do  _not_  compare me to Mycroft,  _ever_. He is just... _ugh_."

"How did you find out the pass code?"

"It's not exactly Fort Knox you know. It was easy to crack."

John sighed in frustration, "Just don't break it, please?"

"Nonsense, I am not violent."

"You shot the wall out of pure boredom!"

"I was  _bored_ , however at the moment, I am not."

"Cause that just explains  _everything_."

"It does."

"Whatever."

John moved over to the coffee table to pick up the rent for the month. "I'm going to go and give Mrs. Hudson the rent ahead of time."

"Hm."

The old woman thanked him for being so punctual and head of schedule. She offered him some tea and biscuits and the spoke about Sherlock mostly and how he needed to eat more and sleep better. The man was like a robot and ignored the basic needs in his life. John promised to get him to eat more, though it would take time.

He returned to their flat half an hour later to see Sherlock in his, 'thinking pose'. Hand held in front of his mouth as he stared at the wall.

"You need to eat something."

"Dull."

"Eating pertains to your health."

"Dull."

"Fine. No eating means no nutrition. No nutrition means the body will lack the proper energy to function. No energy means no moving. Having none of the above means deteriorating health which will negatively affect a thin man such as yourself, cutting the usually possible 40 days without food, down to 20 - that is - if you bother to keep yourself hydrated. No water immediately cuts that 20 in half. Weakness and severe weight loss will eventually set in and hinder the body of certain a consulting detective, causing loss of complete motor functions, meaning no keeping his eyes open. The brain will cease proper function not too long after. Eventually it all leads to painful death. But it's not my business on whether or not you wish to be able to even  _go_ on cases, that's  _your_ decision."

Sherlock's ever tapping fingers paused on the keys and he looked over to John, whose arms were crossed and he was resting a hip against the kitchen table.

"My size really matters?"

"Seventy-two inches tall and you weigh 11.5 Stone, Sherlock. You're thin enough as it is. Your time will decrease drastically. How can you not know this?"

"I think I deleted it. Truly I hadn't expected the repercussions to be so negative. However I still don't like wasting my time."

John sighed, "Sherlock, it isn't a waste of time. If you can sit still for three days without actually  _thinking_ about anything, you can spare five minutes to eat. It isn't difficult. You can even eat on the go. This is about keeping you healthy and alive. If you want to be a consulting detective, you need to be alive to do so. What use are you if you're dead?"

"Why do you care?"

"You're my flatmate, you're my main source of entertainment, you're interesting to be around, I consider you a friend and I can't very well let someone as amazing as you die over something as stupid as malnutrition."

Sherlock looked at the computer screen for a moment, before glancing back up and looked slightly uncomfortable as he asked, "Do you know you use the word a lot when referring to me?"

"You  _are_ amazing. Nothing will change that."

The consulting detective flushed and looked away. "I'll eat," he mumbled.

John's grin could have split his face. "Thank you!"

* * *

Sherlock got a 'special case' offer from an old 'friend'. Though since Sherlock was the way he was, it probably someone he met that considered him a friend but the feelings weren't returned. Sherlock didn't understand sentiment.

John of course, followed him.

Sherlock entered the revolving door with finesse and John would swear that he nearly got stuck inside it. Like it moved fine for Sherlock but hated John and decided to fuck with him.

The man who asked for Sherlock's assistance - Sebastian - seemed shocked when Sherlock introduced John as his friend. John rolled his eyes inwardly, knowing that Sherlock did not feel that way about him as of yet, though he distantly felt admiration for John. Sentiment was too confusing for the man as of yet.

John was positive that Sebastian was thinking the wrong thing about their relationship. Especially when he murmured the word 'cute' under his breath. Why did everyone assume that Sherlock and John were a couple? Did they give off some kind of picture or vibe or something?

John could feel the tension between the men. He was correct. Sherlock did not actually view the man as a friend let alone an acquaintance. The man simply began to regale to John the stories of when they were in University and how Sherlock seemed to know everything about a person's night just by a glance at them. John did not appreciate when Sherlock was referred to as a 'weirdo' and a 'freak', though he never had a chance to react, because Sebastian plowed on.

Sherlock answered a couple questions and gave a simple - yet extremely fake - smile to the man, who laughed without humor and told them about how glad he was that they were there.

"We've had a break in. Sir William's office, the bank's former chairman. His things have been left there, like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

John queried about what they stole and the man answered with a simple, 'nothing'.

"However they  _did_  leave a message."

They entered the room and John's eyes immediately landed on the portrait above the desk. An obese man with a mustache but his face was marred by a large strip of yellow - parallel to the floor - going across his eyes in a straight line. To the left of the portrait was another yellow symbol, but this one resembled a figure eight, almost. It had a line above it.

He stared long and hard, because something in his mind, told him he'd seen them before. Something that happened long ago.

"John?" Sherlock intoned softly. Questioningly.

"They're numbers," he stated firmly, head tilted.

"What?" Sebastian asked.

"It isn't exactly a message, they're just numbers. The one on the portrait is the number 'one' and  _that_ is number 'fifteen'."

Both men gave each other a look, before looking at him to explain.

John sighed.

"I'm thirty-three, born in the late seventies. It was in the early nineties that this style of Chinese numerals went out of date. I was six and attending an academy that was being funded heavily by an old and wealthy Chinese gentleman. He was in his late eighties and his granddaughter attended the school and was in my class. Her parents were murdered, I found out later, which answered why she lived with him. Anyway, the school constantly put Chinese culture into our classes because they wanted to keep the man happy, so he'd donate frequently. Because of his age, he was pretty set in older times and preferred to use an older style of numerals instead of the newer, preferred versions. The school taught small classes on  _Suzhou_  numerals and right before us, are two different numbers. I don't understand the significance of the numbers, but...yeah."

Sherlock frowned and pulled out his phone. He snapped a few pictures and mumbled a 'for later'.

Sebastian got over his confusion and lead them back to his office where he showed the footage of the room from the night previous. In the course of one minute, the marking appeared suddenly but no sign of a break in. The doors of the building were keyed into the main desk and every time one opened, a note was made. There were records but the door wasn't opened so how did the person get in?

Sebastian was offering figures for Sherlock to find the hole in their security. Sherlock gave John a look and John sighed and proceeded to work out the exact price with the man.

"I'm the assistant/colleague/flatmate and anything else he could possibly come up with."

Sherlock proceeded to do an odd version of duck and weave through the office, garnering the attention of most of the workers who were shooting him odd looks. He kept moving further away from the desecrated room until he backed his way into an office. He came out a moment later and everything was set in order.

Once they were cleared of the building, Sherlock explained that the message was for a traitor in the office to find at midnight, which was only a couple of minutes after the message was put up. An Edward Van Coon, who was the Hong Kong Desk Head. Strange, considering his position and the fact that the symbols were an old Chinese numeral system, outdated for nearly twenty years. Sherlock found this to be particularly interesting and vowed to look up Suzhou later on.

* * *

Sherlock had John consult the online phone book to find the man's address.

"Why couldn't you do it?"

"Who is the assistant in this relationship?"

"Hm."

John found it quickly on the cab ride over, luckily they had been riding in the right direction. Sherlock had totally swindled a woman who had just moved in, to buzz them into the building when the man they were looking for, wasn't home. John rolled his eyes at how easy it was for him to act. She even let him use her balcony!

John obviously used the sensible way and just rode the elevator up to the required floor and waited in front of the door, for Sherlock to do his magic.

There were no sounds coming from the flat.

A few moments later, John was finally let into the apartment and he saw what had taken Sherlock's time. Edward Van Coon was dead on his bed, gun lying beside his body.

Sherlock looked to John expectantly, even as the sound of sirens lit up the outside of the apartment complex.

"Fine," John sighed. "He's been gone for a few days, judging from the bag and how many pairs of clothing are inside. He only recently returned, seeing as the body is relatively cold and clothes were unchanged, he didn't even get his shoes off, so last night definitely. Why was he meant to see the message though? Why couldn't they text or email? Unless…. Judging from the suitcase, something else was in there and now it's not. Maybe he was being threatened because he had something of value."

Sherlock was smiling at him even as he bent over the body to identify an strange occurrences.

"Well done, John."

Before either could say any more, their discussion was interrupted by Dimmock. DI Dimmock who would be handling the current case and who stated very clearly that he didn't need Sherlock's assistance. Sherlock handed him the evidence bag he'd been using and smiled. It was fake.

Dimmock said to one of the men in blue, "We're looking at a suicide."

John frowned and couldn't help himself from saying, "You didn't even bother to look at anything. Not even the body. How could you just assume what happened, when you were barely in the room for ten seconds?"

Before the man could respond, he was continuing. "Surely you aren't  _that_ lazy. Can't bother to at least look? Gregory at least tries to take in the situation fully before coming to a warped conclusion. Then again, you're just a child compared to him, so I'm not so surprised."

Dimmock finally seemed to grow some bullocks then and stood up straighter, though his height didn't give him much on John. He was short too. "Just who the bloody hell  _are_ you?"

"Brigadier General John H. Watson, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps and when I was lower in rank, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, at your service, temporary Detective Inspector Dimmock."

John had taken off his glasses in order to make unwanted eye contact with the man who was ten years his junior. Dimmock paled upon revelation of John's former status.

"How could it not be a suicide…..sir?"

John looked to Sherlock in expectancy. The dark-haired man, who had been watching silently as John pulled rank, brightened and began to explain why it wasn't as Dimmock assumed.

"Van Coon is left-handed, proven by everything in the flat being turned toward the left. It would take quite a bit of contortion to shoot himself in such a way. Unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself on the right side of the head, conclusion being that someone broke in here and murdered him which is the only explanation of all the facts."

"But the gun-"

"He was waiting for them, because he'd been threatened."

Sherlock began to put his coat on and Dimmock asked, "When?"

"Today at the bank," John supplied with a shrug.

"He fired the shot, it missed, and it went out the open window."

"How did the killer get in if the door was locked from the inside?"

Sherlock smiled darkly and said, "Good. You're finally asking the  _right_ questions."

John followed him as he swept from the room.

* * *

Sherlock barged his way in on Sebastian's lunch break. The man had been with a couple of friends and Sherlock's comment about Van Coon's death, immediately making the fun atmosphere disappear.

A message from his boss while they were trying to get information out of him, revealed that Dimmock filed a report of it being a suicide. He left them to their business after a snide comment about Sherlock's detective abilities.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and he and John departed from the building swiftly and heading for the flat.

* * *

A few days of pretty much nothingness passes.

Sherlock was in the middle of something and kept mumbling out curses. John finally looked up from his chair and asked, "Are you alright?"

"Just fine. I doubt you'd understand though."

Feeling as if his intelligence was being questioned, John stood and moved into the kitchen to see what experiment Sherlock was doing.

The man kept going back and forth between his notepad and his beakers, murmuring to himself. John was surprised he had even gotten an answer from the man.

A magnifying glass and a few slides of he didn't know what. Sherlock kept going back and forth between them all.

"The Formula is off," he heard the man mutter.

"Which Formula are you using?"

Sherlock's back straightened and he looked at John as if he was an alien life form of some kind. "Pardon?"

John gestured to the notepad and said, "By the look of it, you're writing that all down in Structural Formula format. Of course you're having a difficult time. Either use Empirical or Molecular. Easier that way."

"How do you know about the Formulas?"

John flushed and looked to the side. "Well…."

"' _Well'_?" Sherlock repeated, expectantly.

John sighed, "I was an overachiever as a child. Always doing work and skipping grades until finally, I just took the Standardized Test to finish my time at the Academy, early. Five years early to be exact. I applied to King's College immediately on multiple scholarships and donations. I took up many classes. I had already gotten my qualifications as a Doctor by the time I joined the Army. I had also, already had a Master's of Science in Biochemistry and Microbiology, and a Doctoral Degree in Biology. Hell, I could be a Pharmacist if I wanted to do so. These things, just come easy to me and I don't understand why. It's one of the reasons why Harry and I don't get on. She struggled to maintain her basic schooling and I passed her out easily, making her a laughing-stock among her year mates. She  _still_ holds it against me and blames her drinking addiction on me."

John frowned, remembering the insults his own sister had thrown at him for being smart. Much like how people treated Sherlock for being so brilliant. He shook himself of the depressing thoughts that were meant for another day.

"Anyway, I did tell you a while ago that I was more than a doctor and very good at all my titles."

"A Biochemist and a Microbiologist," Sherlock breathed, eyes going wide. A smile was blooming on his face. "Amazing."

"Don't get excited. It isn't that big of a deal, you know."

"You don't understand, John. It's perfect! You're perfect! You observe a lot better than anyone else I know - except maybe Mycroft - and you're accepting of me and don't try to change me and you're intelligent and have a degree in one of the subjects I have a degree in. The list can go on, but this just makes you even better as a flatmate/assistant/colleague and more."

"Glad to know that you're so...happy about this, Sherlock."

"I'm ecstatic."

"I can see that."

* * *

"John! John! I have an issue I don't understand!"

John, who had been chopping vegetables in the kitchen, turned to look at the man who had rushed into the room, pulled him away from the cutting board and proceeded to shake him by the shoulders. Sherlock looked half crazed and his hair was more disheveled than usual.

"Are you actually  _admitting_ to  _not knowing_  something and  _needing_ help?"

"Save me the theatrical sarcasm, John. I have a problem. A woman winked at me!"

"So? Why is this so confusing?"

"I was content to just ignore it, seeing as people do that sort of thing all the time and enjoy it when  _I_  do it, for some reason. But then she slipped a piece of paper into my hand and winked again. Why did she give me a phone number? What am I supposed to do with it? Why do people like winking? What is the purpose behind such banalities? Who did she look at me so strangely, but not call me a 'freak' like other people do when they give me similar looks?"

John stood there, staring at his flatmate who looked genuinely lost to the whole situation. He sighed, wishing that Sherlock wasn't so emotionally introverted.

"Sherlock, she was flirting with you. She gave you her number in hopes that you'd call her later. Possibly for a date."

Sherlock went ramrod straight and began to quote, "Flirting: a flamboyant type of behavior dedicated to catching the interest of a particular individual for a source of amusement and very rarely for serious intentions."

"Where did you come up with  _that_ definition?"

"That is my own definition."

"It's slightly skewed, but okay."

"Why was this woman... _flirting_  with me?"

John pulled away from Sherlock to give him a thorough once over and placed his knife on the cutting board.

"Sherlock, I know you don't understand emotions and sentiment all that well, but surely you must have realized at some point in your life that you are an attractive man?"

Sherlock nodded once, "I am aesthetically pleasing to the human eye, yes."

Okay, so he was going to be all scientific about it then. If that was how to get him to understand.

"Since you know about this, you should be made to understand that people will display a certain amount of interest in you. Your looks are a big part of what makes people fumble around you. Why they stutter and flush. Physically, you could be labeled as 'perfection'. Tall, light-colored skin, heterochromatic blue eyes, dark, curly hair, cheekbones that could possibly cut diamonds in half and an extremely deep voice. The human body is attracted to beauty and you have it in spades. Of course women and men are going to flirt with you. Some of them want to do even  _more_ than that."

"They don't know me."

"Ever hear of a one night stand? They don't  _need_ to know you to want sex from you. And unfortunately, most people would lose interest if they heard you speak because you ignore niceties and proper measures when out in public. You call everyone 'idiots' and expect them to just accept it as fact. You flaunt your obvious intelligence and some people wouldn't appreciate that. Very few people would accept you for  _who_ you are because of  _how_ you are. Very rarely would someone stick around long enough to try to change you."

Sherlock was frowning, "'Change' me?"

"Yes. Make you into what they want, instead of just accepting your flaws and faults. People who do that, don't truly care for you by the way. If they can't be bothered to love and care for even what is considered the  _worst_ of you, they aren't meant for you and don't deserve you."

" _You_  try to change me."

John scoffed, "No I don't. Changing you would be me demanding that you stop experiments, no more body parts, no playing violin at random hours, no sitting still for days on end and no deductions. That would be an example of someone trying to change you. I simply ask you to eat and sleep so that you remain alive and healthy.  _I_  happen to  _like_ you the way you are and wouldn't change you for anything."

Sherlock glanced at the floor and huffed.

"So basically people display their interest in my appearance by acting like ignoramuses with mad convulsing issues?"

At John's confused look, he demonstrated a repeated winking and shaking of the head.

"Well, I've never seen someone  _flirt_ like that before, but sure...we'll go with that."

Sherlock head tilted, "How do people usually  _flirt_?"

"Smiling,  _normal_ winking, chatting, attempted humor, complimenting, teasing, brief touching. Those sorts of things."

Sherlock placed a strong hand on his shoulder and looked him deeply in the eyes. "This is  _flirting_?"

At the utter seriousness in Sherlock's tone and face, John broke down into loud guffaws. Poor Sherlock was so lost, it was cute in a sort of way.

"No, Sherlock. It's very different from just simple touching. There's a way to go about it."

"Dinner!" Sherlock said suddenly, hand falling from John's shoulder.

"Huh?"

"We'll do an experiment at dinner. You will show me what it's like for people to  _flirt_. I don't like not understanding and though I may delete the usefulness in the end, it would be pleasant to know at least. That way I can properly redirect people's attentions to a more worthwhile venture."

John chuckled and nodded along. "Sure."

Sherlock smirked and went into the living area to sit on the sofa, where elbows met knees and hand were held in front of his lips. Typical 'thinking pose' for Sherlock.

John finished preparing the meal - simple salad, pasta with meatballs and garlic bread - and they began the 'experiment'.

Sherlock sat rigidly in his chair as he waited for John to  _flirt_ with him.

John served his plate and gently brushed the consulting detective's fingers when handing it over. Sherlock caught the action easily and gave him a questioning look, that he returned with a simple smile.

They ate slowly, John began asking Sherlock questions about certain things and whenever Sherlock gave one of his extremely long and very well deduced answers, John would tell him that he was 'amazing', 'brilliant' and the one that got him a flush - though he was sure that Sherlock didn't know it - 'extraordinary'.

He complimented the man's clothing and told him his hair was luscious.

Casual caresses against Sherlock's wrists and the sleeves of his navy blue blazer.

John made sure to smile often and it wasn't forced or anything. Sherlock was an easy person to smile for. He couldn't explain it but there was just something about the man. John was sure he was a little smitten with his flatmate. And why wouldn't he be? Sherlock was stunning. Both intelligent  _and_ attractive. The full package!

"Are you sure all of this is part of the flirting process?" Sherlock asked toward the end of the meal.

"Yes. I've done similar things with friends who became something more. Luckily, we're still friends and never ended our relationships on a bad note. I'm pretty good at flirting. It's not supposed to be forced and uncomfortable. It takes a natural sort of ease to flirt properly. Success is usually determined when the other party shows interest in you and what you have to say. If they want to get to know you better, that's a particularly good sign."

"The... _touching_  is a requirement?"

"There are many different components to flirting but not everyone does it the same way. I for one, revel in physical contact with who I'm talking to. If you've noticed, I tend to touch you and other people more than what is considered normal. It's  _my_ thing."

"Is the meal finished so that I may give you the conclusion I've reached?"

"The main is finished, unless you don't want pie?"

"Apple?"

"Always."

"I could spare a slice."

"Then tell me what you've noticed while I fetch the cutlery and such."

Sherlock sat back in his seat and folded his hands atop the table. John took to carrying the crockery to the sink, to soak.

"I have concluded that you  _flirt_ with me on a day to day basis."

John dropped a plate in the sink and whirled on Sherlock with a shocked face.

"Yes. Everything you did during our meal, are things you do all the time. I'd go so far as to say you're a housewife, seeing as you clean when you want, you cook all the meals, you look out for my health, you defend me often, you tolerate me even when I'm annoying and generally, you  _care_. You're like my wife, but not."

John's eyebrow couldn't help but arch upward. And the doctor thought about it very closely. Sherlock was correct. Everything he had done, wasn't too hard. There was no need for effort and it had all truly been natural.

Bloody buggering fuck! He'd been flirting with Sherlock the entire time.

"Sorry," he mumbled awkwardly, twisting his fingers in his jumper.

"No, it's…" Sherlock began slowly and looked around, as if searching for the words. "I've become used to it. It's fine. Besides, you didn't repulse me like the woman earlier had."

John looked around for a moment, before nodding his acceptance, "Well,  _thanks..._ for that. I take it I'm a good flirt."

"I wasn't uncomfortable and I didn't wish to get away at the closest convenience."

John gave Sherlock a sly look and asked, "Does that mean you  _liked_ it?"

"I most certainly did not  _detest_ it."

And that was the best answer he'd get but John understood the meaning beneath, so it was just fine with him.

Sherlock wasn't so used to just owning up to his feelings and emotions, so he worded his response in a way that sounded like he neither liked nor hated it, in order to avoid revealing anything important.

Kudos to Sherlock.

* * *

When John entered the flat a few days later, Sherlock was in his 'thinking pose', John's laptop pulled up right beside him as he faced the hearth.

"Something wrong?"

"Another murder. Locked doors, windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon."

"Dear Lord, what is this killer's game?"

Sherlock hummed lightly, before standing and claiming that they needed to go the New Scotland Yard to see Dimmock. John rushed to follow and make sure that Sherlock didn't drop his laptop in his haste.

The man who sat behind the desk had his arms crossed and her looked huffy. He obviously didn't want to be speaking to Sherlock in the least.

"Brian Lukis," Sherlock began as he looked over the web page. "Murdered in his flat, doors locked from the inside."

John was nodding, "You have to admit it's the same circumstance as Van Coon."

Sherlock nodded along with his 'assistant'. "You didn't really believe that Van Coon was just another inner city suicide, did you?"

Dimmock just stared.

"You've seen the ballistics report and the shot that was fired wasn't from his own gun, correct?"

"Yes," Dimmock admitted lowly.

"So the investigation might move a bit quicker, if you were to  _take my word as gospel_."

The doctor nodded, "He has a point. It's be best that you just listen to him."

Sherlock leaned over the desk and said, "I've just handed you a murder inquiry. I want five minutes in his flat."

And so they were taken to the flat, because Dimmock couldn't hide the fact that he needed help.

Sherlock walked around the room calmly, his keen eyes taking in every detail he saw. John stood by the door with Dimmock and they watched as Sherlock smirked to himself as he paced back and forth, murmuring about locked doors and assuming safety.

He flashed John an excited grin on one of his turns and proceeded into the hallways, explaining that the killer could climb and cling to wall like an insect. He popped open the latch on the window in the hall and smiled wider. "That's how he got in!"

Dimmock gaped and looked around, before questioning Sherlock's mental health. The consulting detective sneered and gave full explanation as to how it was possible, seeing as he had managed the first one on his own. Breaking into the flat via neighbor's balcony.

He looked around, "Have to find what connects these two men."

He snatched a book from the many piles on the staircase and opened it, before proceeding down the steps, yelling John's name as he went.

They were in a taxi a few moments later, on their way to a library.

Sherlock had the woman at the desk scan the book for him and it was taken out by Lukis the very day he died. With a finger pointing them in the right direction, Sherlock lead them to the bookshelves.

"There has to be something here. Anything. Check the books in this section, John."

"Okay then."

Each chose a side of the shelves to work on and both began pulling out books of all sizes. Sherlock flipping through them at record speed.

John grabbed a few at once and removed them from the shelf but his eyes caught something familiar in the shade of yellow and he called Sherlock's name as he removed more books.

The taller man spun around and before their eyes, was the exact same message that was on the chairman's portrait in the bank. Sherlock's phone was out in a flash and he proceeded to take pictures, for his wall. The Wall of Suspects, as John liked to call it.

Back at their flat, they spent some time trying come up with how the men were connected. What did they have to do with the cipher written in Suzhou?

The next day, Sherlock pretty much dragged poor John all over the city to find a man that could give them some leads over what the spray paint that was used was called. If they found the manufacturer or possibly where it was sold, maybe the salesman/woman would be able to explain if they saw anyone suspicious come through their store? It was a mild shot but it was all they had at the moment. Or maybe the man would know the person behind it if he recognized the symbols or paint color.

Sherlock actually admitted to needing advice! John couldn't stop snickering.

"I recognize the paint. Michigan Hardcore Propellant," he had told them.

Sherlock then asked him to look around and see if he could find any more of the paint or the symbols. John placed the can of spray paint the teen had tossed to him, on the ground, seeing no reason for him to hold it any longer, since Sherlock was about finished.

"I'll look around."

" **Hey**!"

The three men ran for it, John and Sherlock splitting off from the kid, even as the cops behind them screamed for them to 'stop'.

John easily began to outrun Sherlock, who commented on John 'leaving him behind' and wasn't it supposed to be 'in this together' or something like that.

John's response was, "In the army you fight together until you're the last man standing. And you keep fighting, even then. When you're brought to your knees you keep on keepin' on and even on your last breath, you make damn sure you've caused trouble for the enemy.  _That_ is an honorable thing to do. Staying by your men, even in death. However, we aren't going to die, honor is not involved and since you got us into such a situation and I don't feel like paying a fine for something I didn't do, every man for himself."

John was moving even faster now, getting further ahead of Sherlock, who scoffed form far behind him.

John cut into an alley and managed to get enough momentum to jump high enough onto a closed skip and from there, to jump onto the fire escape that he proceeded to swiftly climb like a monkey. He could hear Sherlock following him, though not as fast.

John was just better at Parkour. He was military trained in it after all.

He sprinted across the rooftop easily, distantly hearing Sherlock finally make it up after him.

What followed, was a very long and tiring game of jump-the-rooftops. Only when John was positive that they had lost the cops, did he finally lead them back to the ground.

They huffed and puffed in a small dead-end alley, John giving Sherlock an appreciative look.

"Impressive that you managed to keep up at all."

"I thought  _I_  was evil."

A snort. "What now?"

Sherlock looked around for a moment and grinned. "I need you to go to the station."

John had never hated words more than in that moment.

* * *

Dimmock wasn't such a bad bloke after all.

He gave the journal John had been there to collect, over and simply told him that Sherlock was an 'arrogant sod'. Compared to the other things people had called him, John began to like Dimmock a lot more.

The doctor literally crashed into Sherlock as he was following the instructions in the journal.

Sherlock began his high-speed, rambling about how he pieced together how Van Coon had dropped something off in the particular area and all he needed to find out, was where. Flew back from China, stopped in the area to drop something off but Sherlock needed to find out why and where.

John rolled his eyes and grabbed the man's shoulders, spinning him around. "That shop over there! Lukis was here too."

Sherlock gaped, "How do you know?"

John held up the journal and began walking toward the building.

Inside, they found the Suzhou symbols everywhere and Sherlock was so shocked, he was silent.

"What? No miraculous deductions?"

Sherlock's eyes rolled and he left the shop, John close on his heels.

They stopped by a small restaurant across the street for a bite, since John was willing to admit that he was a bit peckish. Sherlock refused food and received an earful from the doctor for it.

"You better eat supper or so help me, Sherlock Holmes, you won't like me when I'm angry."

"I'm not hungry. There is not point in eating if I'm not hungry. Do you want me to start looking like Mycroft?!"

John snorted around his Lo Mein, choking when it went down the wrong pipe. Sherlock's hand slammed into his back hard enough to let him cough up the food. "Thanks. You could have waited until there wasn't food in my mouth though."

"I had no idea that you would find my simple yet truthful question, so humorous. Thousand pardons, truly," Sherlock replied blandly.

"That sincerity is going to make me emotional, I swear."

"Sarcasm? Really? That's just an easy way out for a lazy man when he has nothing good to respond with in an argument."

"And not even an hour ago I was running across rooftops and  _you_ were struggling to catch up. Amazing how I became so lazy in such a small amount of time."

"Back onto the subject of The Lucky Cat and Coin. These men came back from China and visited  _there_ , for some reason. And we've established that they were both holding something of value. Do you remember what Sebastian said? Van Coon lost a lot of money, but made it all back in a week, during a trip to China. How?"

John didn't need to look in Sherlock's eyes to get the answer. The answers were easily right in front of them. Laid bare for all to see, if they bothered to observe of course.

"They smuggled something."

Sherlock smiled suddenly and nodded, "Correct! Now we need to find out what they had that put them in such danger. Van Coon did business frequently in China and Lukis was a journalist who wrote about China. Both had large suitcases and  _that_ was the drop off."

"But why would someone want to kill them, if the jobs were already finished?

Sherlock sat back and assumed his 'thinking pose', which left John enough time to shovel his food in his mouth. Who knew when Sherlock suddenly needed to get up and move? He'd like to eat all of his food before a hasty departure.

John froze, fork halfway to mouth, when a dark smirk spread across Sherlock's lips, making him look devilish. "What if one of them was light-fingered?"

John swallowed, in order to not risk gaping unattractively and giving poor Sherlock a view unneeded.

"What if they stole something from the hoard?"

John nodded, "And the killer doesn't know who, so he threatens them both."

They sat in contemplative silence and John managed to finish his food and tea. Sherlock had been staring out the window.

His eyes narrowed suddenly, "Remind me, when was the last time that it rained?"

He was out the door the next moment and John scrambled after him, leaving a few pounds bills on the table.

Sherlock crossed the street and touched the packaged Yellow Pages outside the white door immediately to the right of The Lucky Cat and Coin. It was wet and he mumbled, "It's been here since Monday."

"How does that pertain to anything?" John couldn't help but ask.

He rang the doorbell and told John to take note of the name, 'Soo Lin Yao'. When no one answered the door, Sherlock walked around to the alley on the side of the building and used his obvious height to pull the fire escape down. John followed after him quickly, not wanting to be left behind.

"John, no one has been in that flat for three days."

"Holiday maybe."

"You leave your windows open when you go on a holiday?"

"Point taken."

Sherlock led him around the side and in through the open window.

"Why do I have a feeling that you just break into people's flats on a regular basis?"

"I do not break anything, John."

" _Right_."

Sherlock jumped in through the window and knocked over a vase, that was empty. Judging by the large wet stain on the rug, someone had already been inside and knocked it over but didn't bother to pick it up. John was a lot more careful when it came to slipping into the flat. He landed soundlessly.

Sherlock proceeded to took at everything in the flat from top to bottom. The laundry in the machine. The walls, the sink.

"Do you really need to go into the bedroom?" John asked, uncomfortably. He really didn't want to see someone's knickers. Knickers because the flat was very girly with frills and lace and obviously home of a Asian woman.

"Yes."

Sherlock was obviously a fan of brevity.

Just as he thought, knickers thrown over the shoji screen. He gave a long suffering sigh and stayed by the door, not wanting to touch anything.

Sherlock slowly approached the screen, but stepped back suddenly when a black mass appeared from behind it and attacked him.

John had his gun out and cocked in the same moment.

The person, who had managed to get something long and white around Sherlock's throat in that small time frame, froze in place. Though he couldn't see the face, since it was covered by a black cloth, he could tell that they were watching him.

"Release him, or I shoot you."

When the man didn't move, John pulled the trigger. The man fell over, bullet between the eyes.

Sherlock rolled away from the fallen body and ripped the white from his neck. He choked in air and rubbed at his neck several times.

"You didn't give him...a chance," he wheezed out, sounding much like a smoker would.

"We don't give the countdown in the Army. It's either do or die. He chose to die."

John placed a hand on Sherlock neck and applied light pressure, making the younger man wince.

"No speaking for a while. We should get out of here. Most likely, someone will call the police after they heard the shot.. This can just be added to the list. Doors lock with an open window and a dead body with a bullet in the head."

"Clever way to get out of trouble, John."

John smacked him upside the head, "No speaking!"

Sherlock stumbled to his feet, with the assistance of John and after collecting the mail of the former resident, they slipped out the window and climbed to the top of the building.

"Another rooftop run. Is this going to become a regular occurrence?"

Sherlock stuck his tongue out.

* * *

After a few hours in their own flat, Sherlock decided it was time to continue the search for information.

John had made him drink several cups of various teas and even an herbal one in hopes of soothing his throat. He even purchased a bag of lozenges for Sherlock's sore throat. The consulting detective was finally able to speak again.

"We're going to this museum on the letter to find this 'Andy'. He seems to care for Soo Lin a lot. An admirer."

Sherlock easily sauntered into the museum half an hour later and use his suave tone to get information on where to find 'Andy'.

The young man was obviously of the misunderstood type. He dressed perfectly with not a wrinkle in his clothing. Dress shirt buttoned all the way up. Someone who followed the rules.

Sherlock began the questioning.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Three days ago, here at the museum. This morning they told me she resigned, just like that. She left all of her work unfinished."

Sherlock turned to face the young man and asked, "What was the last thing she did on her final afternoon?"

Andy led them into the back of the museum, towards a line of lockers. He explained how she did a tea ceremony for the tourists and how she would pack her things and put them away.

John had been looking around the corridor and paused when he saw something, elbowing Sherlock in the process and pointing.

Sherlock saw it. The statue a few feet away, with the very same symbol like in the last two people who had been killed. The Suzhou number 'fifteen'.

They thanked Andy for his time and left immediately.

It was already dark out and Sherlock was mumbling about having to find Soo Lin Yao. John pointed out that if she was already dead, it would be pointless.

"Sherlock!"

Said man's little friend from earlier in the day came running up and he smile, gesturing with his head for them to follow.

After a long walk in the darkness of the city, he led them to an underground park. More like a stunt park. There were teenagers with all sorts of bicycles, skateboards and scooters, performing tricks and daring each other to do better.

The teen showed them a large expanse of wall where sure enough, there were more numbers in symbol form.

Sherlock pulled out his cellphone and proceeded to take several pictures for later.

After thanking the teen for his assistance, Sherlock ordered John to go in one direction around the whole area, while he went in another. Searching for anything that seemed similar to the numbers or paint.

John's search wasn't very forthcoming. He actually had to use a torch in order to see anything, it was so dark. The train tracks were broken up, obviously no longer used. He didn't have to worry about a train coming and killing him.

It was when he saw yellow paint on them, that he paid more attention. Paint, then a can and finally, he came to a large brick wall off to the side of the tracks, covered in the entire Suzhou number system. He pulled back a bit and used the torch to make taking the picture easier. Once he had a few good pictures and made sure there was nothing else around, he ran off to find Sherlock.

It took nearly ten minutes to find Sherlock but when he did, all he had to do was mention finding something and the man was coming! Quickly!

It was gone. The entire wall was cleaned when they made it back. John's head tilted to the side, "Is it washable?"

"Someone doesn't want us to see it," Sherlock supplied. He then placed his hands on either side of John's head and leaned in, making the doctor flush.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? I thought you were married to you work."

"Concentrate, John."

"Why?"

Sherlock began spinning them around and John couldn't see Sherlock's eyes in the darkness, so nothing to go on.

"I need you to maximize your visual memory."

"Sherlock, you're making me dizzy."

"This is important, John."

"I took a few pictures!"

The suddenly ceasing of movement made John pitch forward and bump into Sherlock who landed on the ground, harshly.

"Let this be a lesson to you. Don't spin people."

The doctor rolled off the dark-haired man and groaned.

"You took pictures?"

"Yes."

"Are they visible?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Good show, John. Sorry about the...touching."

"It's fine. Let's get going."

* * *

Their wall was covered in pictures on Suzhou and Sherlock had John decipher what each number was.

"Always in pairs, but why?"

Sherlock frowned, "We can't crack this without Soo Lin. Perhaps her admirer would be able to help again."

The next day started off rather late, thankfully John had convinced Sherlock to eat lunch before heading off to the museum again. He really needed to learn to take better care of himself.

Andy couldn't tell them anything more. He'd already checked mutual friends and acquaintances and no one knew where she was. He was sad about it.

It was when Sherlock inquired about a tea set placed under a glass case, did John think he'd finally lost it. Andy explained how Soo Lin had loved them and provided their ceremonies with them. In order to keep the clay from drying and cracking, one had to make tea in them at least once a day.

Sherlock surprised both of them by stating that the previous day, only one pot was shined and now there were two. Some tricky finagling got Sherlock and John access to the museum after hours. Sherlock was on to something and once again, didn't feel like letting anyone in on his plan.

Sherlock was like, the Dark Knight with his long coat trailing behind him in the darkness. John rolled his eyes as the man stalked from shadow to shadow, like a predator out for the unsuspecting prey.

Soo Lin was there and she proceeded to make tea in a small closed off from, with the set. Taking her time. Sherlock nearly gave her a heart attack, when he popped by her side and spoke.

She had dropped the cup she was holding, but Sherlock managed to catch it before it hit the floor.

Soo Lin Yao, going on twenty-one years of age. John got a lot of information from her mind.

She and her brother had entered the foot soldiers(smugglers) of the Black Lotus when they were younger, because their parents died and they had nowhere to go. She was fifteen at the time. They received tattoos specifically for their rank. Her brother was the one killing all of the people and he wanted her help. She refused to assist. She had left and had been safe for five years but they found her and she knew she didn't have much time left.

She worried for her brother but refused to help him because he'd become warped in the ways. He no longer say a difference between what was right and wrong. Shan, the General of the Black Lotus had ruined her brother's mind and allegiances.

Sherlock passed her the papers of the numbers and asked if she could tell them about the code. She stated that they were numbers and Sherlock admitted to John knowing the symbols already. John explained his schooling when growing up and why he knew the symbols at all, surprising her.

There was a loud noise suddenly, cutting Soo Lin off from explaining what book the codes dame from. John had been able to see the book in her mind though. A simple A-Z London Street Atlas guide.

John looked down at the desk, catching sight of the very book in her mind.

"It's this. This is the book that the cipher refers to. They're pages, followed by the first number on the page. So it's the first word on page fifteen."

Soo Lin was gaping and Sherlock mirrored the expression. And then John knew. There wasn't a way he could have gotten that information before Sherlock. There was no reasonable explanation for him to give as to why he knew the answer.

"How did you-" Soo Lin began in confusion.

"As you were explaining the book, you were looking at  _this book_ , which is already opened to page fifteen and the first word is 'deadman', which you have just written on the picture for us."

It was all truth, but it didn't explain why he'd gotten the answer before Sherlock and that may not go over well, later on. Oh, dear.

"Wow," Soo Lin murmured as she placed her pen down.

Another loud noise sounded, much closer to them this time. Sherlock was on defensive instantly, looking around. John pulled out his gun and cocked it.

"Soo Lin, could you please decipher the entire message as quickly as possible?" John asked, fully alert.

She was shaking slightly but nodded and grabbed the pen and paper and started flipping through the book quickly.

John's military training kicked in and he heard his breathing completely silence. So quiet, he saw Sherlock's head turn in his direction in worry. His ears strained to hear anything beyond the sound of Soo Lin's pen scribbling across the paper.

Sherlock moved toward the windows, testing if they were locked. They were. He then looked around for other possible entrances into the room. There were none. Then that meant that whoever it was, had to come in through the door.

Sherlock crouched behind the first desk, nearest the door. The person who entered, would see John obviously ready to fire at the slightest provocation and if Sherlock managed to surprise them in time, John could get in a good shot without possible danger being exposed to Soo Lin.

A shadow appeared behind the ice translucent window. Male, noticeably.

The door opened slowly, making no sound.

John stepped in front of Soo Lin, protective.

Something glinted silver in the small light outside the room.

"Put the weapon down or else," John ordered.

They didn't move, much like the person in Soo Lin's apartment had. Sherlock charged out from behind his desk and tackled the black clad man in a style worthy of the best rugby player. They both fell to the floor.

John had been moving just as Sherlock had, so he was already halfway to them by the time they hit the floor. Sherlock rolled over, bringing the man with him and John fired, bullet going through the killer's right shoulder, making him scream and drop his own gun. Semi-automatic Pistol, now that John was close enough to see it.

John kicked the weapon away from the man and Sherlock rolled back over and put the man in a choke hold. Guillotine. Why did Sherlock know how to do a move like that?

After a moment, the killer went limp and John could hear his breathed slowly instantly. Rarely were people able to enforce a choke-out through use of a Guillotine. Impressive.

Sherlock dropped the limp body to his left and sighed, relaxing on the floor.

John looked from the body to Sherlock and couldn't help but smile, "You're amazing, you know that?"

Sherlock smiled. He had perfect lips, John realized. Perfection.

"I'm starting to believe it."

John helped his friend up and together, they stared down at the body.

"We should call the police," John said. "I should really invest in some handcuffs."

Sherlock's brows rose slightly, "Indeed."

Soo Lin called to them from the back of the room. "I have finished for you!"

Sherlock turned around with a wide grin, "Thank you!"

Wow. Sherlock was in a great mood if he remembered to give gratitude.

John got out his phone and placed a call to Dimmock.

Half an hour later and Scotland Yard invaded the building, with an ambulance on the way.

John and Sherlock stood out of the way and Sherlock showed join the paper.

Jade Dragon Pin for nine million quid?! Bloody hell! On Black Tramway.

Soo Lin was reluctant to tell the police anything but she realized that it was important and so she confessed about her prior affiliation to the Black Lotus and that it was her brother lying on the floor, bleeding from the arm. She told of the Suzhou symbols and how they used the atlas book to decipher the codes. Her brother was a train martial artist and was a natural climber, explaining how he managed to always get in through the window.

She displayed her tattoo. Gave the name of the General in charge of the London division. She revealed everything.

Dimmock was left looking like a fish. Sherlock then showed the man the cipher and explained about the The Lucky Cat and Coin. How they were heading everything up. He even explained where the hairpin was.

John had to ask him how he knew that and he smirked and explained.

"Van Coon was seeing his assistant. The hand soap in his apartment was the same as the one on her desk. She had a very muddled opinion of him and her responses to my inquiries only confirmed it. She keeps her hair in a tight style, reminiscent of a beehive. Inside, is a jade, dragon hairpin. General Shan knew that either Van Coon or Lukis, filched something but didn't know which one, so she sent warnings but neither had the object in question. It had been in Ms. Poulet's possession the entire time."

John and Dimmock stared.

"You're brilliant."

Sherlock flushed upon those words leaving John's mouth. "Thank you," he cleared his throat unsteadily.

* * *

It was the next day, when John was busy preparing dinner, that Sherlock cornered him. Literally. He'd been chopping vegetables - Sherlock always had a habit of interrupting him while chopping vegetables - when the consulting detective appeared out of nowhere, right in his personal space.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

John turned slightly to look at the taller man in question.

Sherlock took one step which put him right into John's bubble. His chest was pushing on John's left shoulder and his arms moved to cage the doctor against the table. John couldn't help himself. He flushed.

"What's  _this_ about?"

Sherlock understandably did not realize the significance of the position they were in. Because of that, he didn't raise a brow at John's accusing one or step away.

"There's something different about you. I can't put my finger on it but you should not have noticed the book yesterday. You answer was too scripted to me. What do you know, John?"

John's heart skipped three beats exactly. Sherlock was definitely more intelligent than he gave credit for. He hadn't expected him to pick up on it so quickly. A few more months at least. He sighed, knowing that Sherlock was observant enough to notice a lie. And according to Sherlock, only lies have obscene detail and attempts to divert the conversation.

"I'll tell you but could you please back off a little? You're in my space and it's hard to think."

Sherlock's brows furrowed, making the doctor sigh once more.

"Your aesthetically pleasing self is making me flushed and flustered."

Sherlock's eyes brightened, "You are attracted to me."

"Yes. Now, personal space, please?"

Once Sherlock was sitting opposite him at the table, he sighed and took a seat of his own. This could take a while.

John removed his glasses, making Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Ever since I was little, I can do this odd thing. It isn't a willing thing and I can't control it. It's the reason why I wear these sunglasses all the time. This strange ability I have, activates when I look someone in the eye. Everything about them. Who they are, what they're about, their pasts, I see  _everything_. It's too much. Not only do I remember all of it, but it'll keep adding on the more I look.

I don't have a Mind Palace to separate everything into perfect order or to delete unwanted information. It stays and stresses me out. Migraines became a normal thing to me and I needed these sunglasses to block light and to make people think I'm looking at them when they talk when in truth, I mostly keep my eyes closed. Most of the time, I hate this ability. However I will conceded to it being helpful when it comes to people like Mycroft."

John looked down at the table, smirking as he thought about their first meeting.

Sherlock was silent, almost as if he was judging John's honesty. But John was being honest and he knew that Sherlock would easily deduce that John wasn't lying.

"You've looked  _me_ in the eye. What do you know about  _me_?"

"What  _don't_ I know about you, or your brother for that matter?

You had a dog when you were younger, named Redbeard. You wanted to be a pirate. You're a virgin, though you were interested in a young man named Victor Trevor for a while. You're homocurious.

Mycroft is on a diet. His umbrella hides a short sword. He has OCD to the extreme. He is  _also_  a virgin and is homocurious as well. Your statement about him being 'the British Government' is right on the mark. Her Majesty and Parliament are like a face and Mycroft in behind them,  _running_  the whole show.

Mycroft is seven years older than you. You both care for each other greatly but in your own ways and you'd never admit your feelings out loud. You resented him for leaving you alone with your parents when he went to University and that was when your problems with each other truly began. You were compared to him constantly during your teen years and instead of being praised for your amazing skills, you were shot down and once again, insulted for not being like Mycroft.

Mycroft doesn't understand why you don't react the way he does. If the way to get something you want, is to be done by putting on airs and faking your way through life, why won't you do it? Façades are his specialty. The fact that he's almost as intelligent as you are, makes him wonder how you both are so different. He knows that you are relatively smarter, but feels the need to say that he's the 'smart one'. He feels that _he is_  because of how he lives his life as opposed to your lifestyle choices. Such as creating a job for yourself and solving crimes.

Do you need any other proof?"

Sherlock was looking at the table. His hands were steepled in the usual 'thinking pose' and he was nodding slightly.

"I knew it," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock locked eyes with John and smirked, "I  _knew_  Mycroft was a virgin!"

John stared. "That's what you say, after all that?"

"I believe you. That information about Mycroft was admittedly all speculation to me but it's swell to know that I was correct. Since you got everything about me correct, it's hard not to believe it. Besides, it would explain how you knew Anderson was an infidel, how Mycroft was my brother, how accepting you are of me and how you knew what Soo Lin was doing."

"And you're fine with it all?"

Sherlock was grinning now. "This is perfect! Cases are going to be  _so much better_  from now on."

John gaped. "You don't think it's...freaky that I can practically read minds?"

"No. Are we having salad tonight?"

John laughed at the non sequitur. "Yes."

"Could you put cucumber in it?"

"Yes."

"Okay then. Call me when it's finished."

Sherlock stood and flounced from the room. A moment later, the sound of the violin filled flat. It was lighthearted, meaning that Sherlock was in a good mood. Really? Learning that his brother was a virgin was that great?

He rolled his eyes and felt the adrenaline leave his body. That was surprisingly anticlimactic. He had expected some arguing or at least maybe an accusation of an invasion of privacy.

He should have known that Sherlock wouldn't judge him over it. Sherlock was the sort to understand how 'odd abilities' made people wary express themselves. Sherlock has his moments of doubting himself. Just like others, though he didn't want to acknowledge it.

With a small smile and mumbled 'thank you' in Sherlock's direction, he continued to chop the vegetables.

Sherlock Holmes was indeed spectacular.

**A/N: Another one done! Remember, this is BAMF John. He's awesome.**

**Check out my cute little, John/Sherlock O/S. ' ** _According to You, I am Beautiful_ '. Sherlock reflects on his feelings for John. Fluffy.****

****How was it? Let me know in a constructive, respectful manner please? If you are rude or you flame me, do not expect a good response. Treat others how you wish to be treated. Assholes don't deserve kindness, remember that.** **

**See ya! :D**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock(BBC) series 1 episode 3, 'The Game' BAMFJohn style. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is awesome in this!

**A/N: Hello, people!**

**I don't own Sherlock. Quotes from the show aren't mine.**

**I have no beta.**

**ENJOY!**

John Hamish Watson was greeted by the sound of a gun being shot, when he opened the door of 221B and he paled instantly, coming to the wrong conclusion immediately. Someone had shot off a gun upstairs and either Sherlock was in danger or he was a fighting for his life. Either way, John couldn't just dilly dally if there was a chance that Sherlock's life was in jeopardy.

John took the steps three at a time and stopped in the doorway of the flat to see Sherlock spread out in his chosen chair, left arm out with John's gun aimed at the wall. There were three bullet holes decorating the wallpaper. John huffed and rolled his eyes. All that worrying and for no apparent reason, Sherlock might just be the death of him.

"What the  _hell_ are you doing?!"

Sherlock, dressed in his pajamas and robe, mumbled a low, "Bored."

"What?"

Sherlock jumped off the chair and aimed at the wall again. He fired.  **BANG**! "Bored!" Arm behind the back this time and fired once more.  **BANG**! "Bored!"

John rushed forward and ripped the weapon from the bored consulting detective's hands. He proceeded to unload the clip, which only had one bullet left. Sherlock wasted an entire round of bullets. Bloody hell!

The dark-haired man stomped over to the sofa and threw himself down on it, huffing childishly. "John, I'm bored."

"I heard you the first time!"

" _Mah_! I'm bored!"

"So you take it out on the wall?"

"Oh, the wall had it coming."

John removed his jacket and slipped the firearm into the right pocket once the safety was on. "What about that Russian case?"

"Open and shut domestic murder. Not...worth...my...time."

"All though you have all the time in the world and are currently wasting it by whining."

"But it's not the  _same_! There is no  _challenge_ for me!"

"Don't whine, Sherlock. Lesser mortals whine but not the great William Sherlock Scott Holmes, the world's only consulting detective."

"But John-"

"No buts!"

" _Hmph_."

"Act your age. What do you fancy for your evening repast?"

"That thing you made that time."

"Oh! You mean with the ingredients that I bought from that store?!"

"Yes."

"Okay!"

To anyone else, their conversation would seem very satire filled and rude but in truth, John actually knew what dish Sherlock was referring to. Lobster Bisque. Sherlock had fine tastes.

Slipping his jacket back on he murmured, "I'm going to the store. Anything you need?"

"Three, 2-imperial-pints of Dairy Crest. One large bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide. A lot of Sodium Chloride. If you can get your hands on some Potassium Cyanide, that'd be  _grand_."

John snorted, "Next you'll ask me to lasso the moon for you. I'll be back soon."

* * *

When John returned to the flat an hour and a half later, he stopped at the police tape blocking his way. A look upwards, showed that there was an explosion across the street. The backlash had blown out the windows in his and Sherlock's flat.

He rushed under the tape, ignoring the warnings of the officers and entered 221B.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, with Mycroft of all people sitting across from him. Sherlock was plucking the strings of his violin and John knew why. It annoyed Mycroft immensely. Sherlock always refused to play when Mycroft was around.

Sherlock did not look injured, which was good.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Just fine. Gas leak apparently."

That wasn't enough for the doctor. John placed the groceries on the available spot on the table and marched on over to Sherlock, checking his head and his eyes for possible concussion, abrasions or contusions and anything else that could signify that he was injured.

"John, I'm  _fine_. The blast only knocked me for a few feet."

"Like that's okay," John scoffed but moved away when he was able to assess that Sherlock was indeed unharmed.

He then turned to Mycroft and asked, "Will you be staying for supper? We're having Lobster Bisque."

He could see the interest in the man's gaze but Mycroft had already decided not to accept the veiled invitation.

"No, thank you."

The doctor shrugged and moved to put away the groceries and to prepare the meal.

Sherlock and Mycroft continued to argue about a case of some sort. Mycroft needed a chip and he threatened to get an official order for Sherlock in order to force him to comply.

Sherlock lied and said that he was too busy.

John scoffed from the kitchen, "No you aren't. You haven't left the flat in a week and he hasn't caught you on any CCTV cameras. You even used a whole round of bullets on the wall. Besides, he has the living area bugged and can see you lying on the sofa at all hours, whining about being 'bored'."

"You're not supposed to take his side, John!"

"This is an interesting case and you said very clearly that you wanted something challenging. Well here you go. A challenge for you. Unless you're willing to admit that Sherlock Holmes cannot indeed do everything."

"I'll  _think_ about it."

Mycroft stood and nodded his head toward Sherlock, before moving into the kitchen to shake John's hand. "I'll be seeing you soon, John. Do watch over my brother, he becomes too excited for his own good."

"Don't I know it."

The man swiftly departed and Sherlock appeared by the table, pouting.

"Stop it."

Sherlock's brows furrowed, "Stop what?"

"That pouting thing you do."

"I don't pout."

"You most certainly do, with those  _cheekbones_ and those... _lips_  of yours."

A slow, deliberate smirk spread across Sherlock's lips. "You like me."

" _Obviously_. In more ways than one."

"So the way to get what I want is to play on your interests."

"You can flaunt your perfection all you want but I was a soldier. I have nerves of steel and can very easily ignore the attraction I feel for you. Remember that, Sherlock."

There came that  _pout_ again.

"Iceberg or Romaine?"

"Both."

Sherlock stood in the archway of the kitchen, while John went about the cooking.

John slid the bag full of Sherlock's requested items across the table and heterochromatic blue orbs lightened considerably. "Thank you!"

He skipped from the room to go to his own. John didn't even bother to ask what he needed them for. So long as Sherlock didn't put cyanide in his food or drink, he was good. Being a doctor and former Brigadier General had its perks.

A few hours later, John caught Sherlock going through his blog, on his laptop.

"Can't you use your own laptop?"

"Yours is closer."

"Please explain how mine - which was upstairs - compared to yours which is on the coffee table right now, was closer?"

"It just is."

"You just like using my laptop for some reason."

"I like to edit your blog, which needs to be done from your laptop."

"You couldn't just hack my account on your own laptop?"

"No. I don't want to. Anyway, Grammar was obviously not your strong point in school."

"Most people wouldn't notice a Grammar error, Sherlock."

"True, but there are those who  _will_ and I'd prefer that my personal blogger didn't seem uneducated because he misused modifiers and forgot a prepositional phrase."

" _Your_  'personal blogger'?"

"Yes."

* * *

John wasn't expecting to be hounded the next morning when he went to make his morning cuppa.

Sherlock jumped right off the sofa and over the coffee table in front of it in one leap. He latched onto John and proceeded to spin him around.

"Lestrade called half an hour ago with a case, John!"

"And you actually let me  _sleep_?" John asked in astonishment.

Sherlock gave him a bland look, "I am capable of  _kindness_ , John. However, I would only do such a thing for you of all people. Everyone else can suffer. Besides, you awaken at eight every morning and I knew there was no point in rousing you half an hour early, especially since you become grumpy if you don't get precisely eight hours of slumber."

John's eyes narrowed, "You're pushing it, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm stating fact. You are absolutely horrid when you are somnolent."

"And just for that, I'm not cooking your favorite meal tonight."

"What?! You'd prefer me to  _lie_ to you?"

John sighed, "Fine, you great git. But stop giving me those eyes."

Sherlock jumped up excitedly, hands above his head.

"Please eat quickly, Lestrade wants us there before ten."

"Yes, your majesty."

An hour later found John showered and dressed appropriately, sitting in the back of a hack with Sherlock, who was positively bouncing with internal glee. Whatever the case was, it had him happy.

Into New Scotland Yard and up to Lestrade's floor, Sherlock stalked though the halls.

"You love all the strange cases."

Sherlock nodded along with Lestrade's assessment. "Of course I do."

"Well, that explosion-"

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

" _No_?" Sherlock's face scrunched up in confusion.

"No, it was made to  _look_ like one. Nothing left of the place except a strong box. A  _very_ strong box, with this inside."

"You haven't opened it yet."

"No, it's addressed to you. But we've x-rayed it and there are no booby traps."

"How reassuring," quipped Sherlock.

Sherlock took up the envelope on the desk, carefully. He slipped it under the light and proceeded to inform them of where the stationary came from. What sort of pen it was written in and that a young woman wrote it. He applied light pressure to the letter opener and peeked inside. He rolled his eyes and slipped the pink phone that was inside, into his open palm.

John's mouth dropped. "That's the woman's pink phone!"

Lestrade's eyes popped open and asked, "From 'A Study in Pink'?"

"No, it's not the same phone, it's supposed to look like-"

Sherlock spun around after cutting himself off and gave Lestrade a look. "'A Study in Pink'? You read his blog?"

"Of course I read his blog, we all do."

John flushed and looked away from Sherlock's penetrating stare. It was embarrassing that he had all of Scotland Yard, reading his blog about his and Sherlock's lives.

"Do you  _really_ not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"

John snorted and promptly ignored Sherlock gaze, when Donovan also snorted.

Sherlock leaned in slightly and murmured, "You owe me my favorite meal for that. Donovan is laughing at me."

"I thought that you didn't care about what people thought about you," John whispered back.

"I normally don't but I really don't want to give Madam Always-Cleans-Anderson's-Floors-With-Her-Knees-When-His-Wife-Is-Away, to have any sort of substantial ammunition against me," the consulting detective whispered back.

"Sorry! I didn't know that all of New Scotland Yard read my blog."

"Of course they'd read it. You're an army veteran who walks like he means serious business and has a very presence that demands respect - as is your bailiwick - spending time and living with someone whom they all know is exceedingly more perspicacious than them and you blog about us and the cases we undertake. Our lives are better than daytime drama to them."

"Okay then, you'll be compensated for your 'suffering'."

"Good."

He looked back to the phone in his hands, "This isn't the same phone, it's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it  _look_ like the same phone, however. Which means, John, that your  _blog_ has a far wider readership than you presumed."

John huffed and rolled his eyes.

**You have 1 new message.**

The phone beeped five times and showed a picture of a fireplace?

Lestrade and John both gave Sherlock expectant looks, not knowing what was going on.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds or pits. Five pits, just like that. It's a warning that it's going to happen again."

Sherlock looked out the window for a second, before turning for the door, "I've seen this place before."

John followed quickly, "Do you mean to tell me that there's going to be another explosion?"

Sherlock looked back, giving John a bright smile, "That's  _exactly_ what it means, John!"

Half an hour later, they were standing before 221C, right above 221B on Baker Street and Sherlock was waiting for Mrs. Hudson to open the room for them. John murmured a 'thank you' to her as they entered.

Inside, was the very same fireplace in the picture on the phone. The only thing in the room, was a pair of blue and yellow trainers. They looked to be in perfect condition, except for the dried mud on the bottom.

Sherlock moved to approach them, but John grabbed his arm. "Remember, this person is a bomber."

Sherlock nodded and slowly approached the shoes. John knew he'd never admit it but when a sudden ringing of the phone cut through the air, Sherlock had jumped about an inch. Lestrade didn't notice, but John did. The look Sherlock sent him was enough to get him not to mention it.

Sherlock answered the call with a low, "Hello?"

He stood there for several minutes, asking what seemed to be random questions and apparently not getting any good answers.

When the call ended, Sherlock slipped on a pair of rubber gloves - he literally carried a box in his coat - and picked the trainers up. "I need to go to Bart's."

Once there, John was made his official laboratory assistant, following every order Sherlock came up with. Prepare the slides, look into the microscope and determine what was exposed. Clean the crucibles and the petri dishes. He couldn't help but answer each order with a, 'Yes Master Holmes'. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes.

Sherlock eyes kept moving from the computer screen to the microscope.

"Pass me my phone, please?"

He actually said 'please'. Wow.

"Where is it?" John asked, looking around.

"Jacket."

John stared at him in silence, before nodding and moving around the long counter, walking right up to Sherlock. He placed a hand on Sherlock's chest and deliberately took his time, fetching the phone from his breast pocket, making sure to slowly run his other hand down the man's stiffening back.

When the mobile device was successfully retrieved, he handed it over and smirked, "If you don't want to be fondled next time, get it yourself."

Meanwhile mentally, John was hoping beyond all hope that Sherlock forgot.

"Y-you-"

"Hm?"

"Why did you do that?"

"Why  _shouldn't_ I do it? I like touching you."

"But you never do it like that."

"Doesn't mean I don't  _want_ to. And you finally gave me a valid reason to do it without being creepy. Good show."

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and cracked his neck before clearing his throat. "Well then, thank you for getting my phone. Will you check it?"

John looked down, "A text from your brother."

"Delete it."

**RE: Bruce-Partington Plans**

**Any progress on Andrew**

**West's death?**

**Mycroft**

John scroll through the list, "It must be important if he texted eight times."

"If it was so important, why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

That gave John pause and he nodded slowly, "Good point. He only texts when he's at the dentist."

"Yes. Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them and got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this. Why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"I don't know, because he's an older sibling and it's the job of the eldest to tease the youngest."

"Dull."

"Annoying more like."

"Dull."

"Shut up and look at your microscope."

**DING!**

"Yes!" Sherlock cheered, looking to the computer which had finally found a match for what he was searching for.

Molly Hooper entered the room then, smiling brightly for Sherlock. John felt bad, because she was head over heels and Sherlock knew it and exploited it to his advantage. He didn't care about her in that way, however. Sad.

A man entered the room right after she did and John made the mistake of looking him in the eye. He could only give thanks for having his sunglasses on, because what he saw, would have given his expression away completely.

Thankfully the glasses were rather large and blocked his eyes and half of his cheeks, leaving the tip of his nose, mouth and chin visible. His mouth had dropped at what he'd seen and he gasped.

Sherlock turned to him immediately, asking if he was well.

"I just thought of the best name for this case."

Sherlock's eyes rolled and he turned back to the microscope, "Let me guess. 'Eruption of Clues' or maybe 'All Tied Up'."

John paused in the process of pulling up a document to write in on his laptop which he was glad he had brought with him. He then looked at Sherlock and his head moved a bit, "Do you have something against the names I choose for our cases?"

"Not  _all_ of them. Just some are a bit lackluster, that's all."

John leaned into the high functioning sociopath's personal space and lowered his glasses down his nose in order to make proper eyes contact. Sherlock met his penetrating stare easily and John could see that he meant no insult in his comment. He was attempting humor.

John smiled fondly and patted Sherlock's cheek. "You shouldn't try so hard, Sher. Just be yourself, I understand your brand of humor just fine."

Sherlock was giving him a puzzled look as he pulled away.

"John, you're  _flirting_ again."

Molly choked suddenly and the man, Jim Moriarty, patted her back. John didn't look away from his friend and just nodded, "I guess I am. Don't expect it to stop." He winked, before pushing his glasses back up, shielding his eyes from the world.

He successfully opened a new file and proceeded to speed type everything he had seen in Moriarty's mind, while surreptitiously looking the man in the eye as he attempted to 'flirt' with Sherlock. Sherlock knew what he was doing easily and brushed his 'advances' aside.

Moriarty, was a very bad man. A very  _very_ bad man and when he left, Sherlock was getting an earful.

He was already on the fourth page of information and was still going strong.

"John, you're typing pretty hard there."

He barely registered Sherlock standing to his left until an incredibly pale and temptingly familiar thin hand, tried to grab the laptop from his hands.

He jerked back, hugging the laptop close and angling it away from Sherlock's grabbing hands. "No! You can't see it yet you git! You'll start correcting my 'poor Grammar'!"

"I just want to see what has you so enraptured."

"No!"

"John."

"No!"

" _John_ ," his voice came out low, like a rumble.

"You'll just have to wait, Sherlock. What are you doing?! Don't you dare back me up against the bloody - this is so  _unfair_!"

Sherlock had him pinned, front to front, against the counter, trying to peer around the side of the laptop to see what he had been typing. While he was doing this, John was trying to get more information out of Moriarty's who was currently unhappy with his proximity to Sherlock. A crush.

"John, must you be so damn difficult?"

"Yes! I was almost finished anyhow. Could you wait until I'm done, at least?"

Sherlock's perfect curls bounced as his head tilted in contemplation, "Very well then."

He did a perfect about-face then and moved back to his seat.

" _Thank you_ ," John answered gratefully. He opened the laptop and continued to where he left off, hoping that Sherlock managed to drag Moriarty's monologue out. He was coming to an end and would prefer to have all the information before the man left.

Molly made awkward conversation with Sherlock with her 'boyfriend' intervening a few times. She was very...lost.

John sighed in relief when he had everything down and slumped slightly, waiting for it to save into the hard drive.

Moriarty left a moment later and Molly remained.

Sherlock mentioned about Moriarty being gay and Molly tried to deny it but the consulting detective gave facts and showed her the tissue Moriarty gave him, holding his number. She huffed for several seconds, before turning around abruptly and stomping from the room.

Sherlock's congenial smile morphed into a confused frown and he turned to John in question. "I don't understand. I just didn't want her to find out when it was too late."

John winced slightly and nodded, "Which is very sweet of you, to think about her feelings like that but you went about it all wrong. It's the whole sentiment thing again. She's very hung up on you and thinks that world of you but you're not interested and she feels that the most amazing person in the world doesn't find her important and it lowers her ego and view of her self-worth. So she constantly seeks out men who are similar to you in appearance in hopes that you'll express jealousy and when you don't and end up deducing them to hell and back about how they aren't good for her and how she can do  _better_ , she feels lost and offended, because that so called ' _better'_ doesn't  _want_ her. She's frustrated, mildly hurt and overemotional. Also, pointing out that she gained weight is not good. Women do not appreciate that, Sherlock. If she wasn't so infatuated with you, you'd be sporting a bruised cheek and downed ego right now."

Sherlock glanced at the door and then back to John, "So my using her feelings to get what I want, is not good?"

"No, it isn't. She's recently begun to understand what you've been doing and is taking her anger out on herself for not noticing earlier."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped slightly.

"Can I see what you typed, now?"

That got John back on track and he motioned for the man to come over.

"This is important and I'm going to need Mycroft's assistance, in exchange for my ability. There's no way he'll help unless he gets something good out of it after all."

Sherlock froze. "You weren't typing about the case," he stated.

"Not at all. Molly's 'boyfriend' is more than he seems and I don't just mean because he's gay."

John turned the laptop around, for Sherlock to read the six pages he managed to type up.

**1\. JAMES 'JIM' MORIARTY. 34 YoA.**

**2\. Born 10 August 1976.**

**3\. Black hair/Brown Eyes.**

**4\. 5' 9".**

**5\. 10 Stone.**

**6\. Works as a 'consulting criminal'.**

**7\. Has an obsession with Sherlock Holmes.**

**8\. Responsible for the murder of Carl Powers, in 1989. Kept his trainers for twenty years and is using them against Sherlock Holmes currently.**

**9\. Sponsored Jeff Hope(cabbie) in his little games.**

**10\. Responsible(as the informant) for successfully smuggling the Black Lotus into Britain. Had General Shan shot by one of his personal snipers when it got back to him that her assassin had failed in killing Soo Lin Yao and that the police are now aware of the Black Lotus.**

**11\. Current mastermind behind 'the game' in which Sherlock Holmes must solve riddles and clues in a limited time frame in order to save the hostages.**

**12\. Pretending to be Molly Hooper's boyfriend in order to get close to Sherlock Holmes.**

**13\. Is gay, though is good at acting as though he isn't. Deliberately acted 'feminine' to make Sherlock Holmes assume that he was gay so that he could rub it in his face later that he was so easily fooled, when in truth, he's actually gay.**

**14\. Master of terrorist techniques and intimidation strategies.**

**15\. Could be a twin of one Sherlock Holmes if judging by intelligence, but is also immature to an extent of using a childish voice and skipping around.** **Very sadistic and has a no-remorse attitude. With few differences, could be an equal of Sherlock's.**

Those were just the first fifteen. He had four more pages of information for Sherlock to read.

He waited patiently and sighed once Sherlock finished.

"This isn't good."

"Yeah, a bit not good."

"What do you need from Mycroft?"

"I have all the addresses for where those hostages are at and I need a sniper rifle, immediately and expeditiously. We're going to need top of the line bullet proof under armor if we're going into this. Moriarty has no problem with using snipers to get what he wants. Apparently, when we were at New Scotland Yard and you received the picture message, he had a sniper trained on you right then."

"And you're going to tell Mycroft about your ability? And offer him your services?"

"Basically, if I want it done now."

Sherlock sighed, "You have all the answers to the riddles too. You know,  _Moriarty_ was the word Hope had given me when I demanded to know who he worked with. I wish I had seen this ahead of time. Are you really going to snipe a sniper?"

"Yes."

"You know how to use a Sniper Rifle?"

"Precisely."

"Then I'll call Mycroft."

* * *

The 'British Government' was waiting in their flat by the time they returned. He was sitting imperiously in John's chosen chair, umbrella lying across his crossed knee.

"What can you both possibly offer me, in exchange for these items?" he asked when they walked into the flat. His arm gestured to Sherlock's chair, which was adorned with weapons and other materials.

Sherlock looked to John to lead and the doctor sighed.

"Mycroft, do you ever wonder why I haven't gotten fed up with Sherlock and left yet?"

The man nodded slowly, "I assumed it was the money speaking."

"I don't care about money. Ever wonder how I knew you were Sherlock's brother, how I knew you wanted to pay me to spy on him and how I knew he referred to you as his archenemy? Without him telling anything?"

**Yes.**

That word flitted through Mycroft's mind, like a text message. Sherlock had a mental piece of parchment with fancy script that appeared as his thoughts played out. Mycroft had a cell phone with messages. The Holmes brothers were an odd bunch.

John knelt before them, until they were eye to eye. Looking into Mycroft's deep blue eyes, he proceeded to read the very words being typed in the man's mind, out loud.

" **I wonder what he's on about."**

" **How did he do that?"**

" **There is no logical way that he can do it."**

" **Is it even possible?"**

" **Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch."*****

John even managed that last word with a perfect Welsh accent, making Mycroft's eyebrows raise in shock.

" **Impressive."**

" **John, can you read my mind?"**

"Yes," the doctor answered in positive.

"How?"

"Haven't the foggiest. Been able to since I was a child. Now, unlike with you and Sherlock and a couple of other people, I can't seen what everyone is thinking at the moment. I'd have to have seen their lives completely up until around this time in their lives, to be good enough to see their immediate thoughts. Mostly I just get information or pictures and it happens so fast. I wear these glasses to make people think I'm still looking at them. I was raised to believe that eye contact is respectful when speaking to people but if every time I look someone in the eye, I see their pasts and lives, is it worth it? I can't control it, sorry."

Mycroft looked to Sherlock, who was smirking imperiously as he leaned against the doorway.

"You knew?"

"Found out about it ten months ago."

John could see that Sherlock was proud of knowing something so 'amazing', before his brother. That sibling rivalry to the highest level.

"Well, I'll admit that it could be useful. What exactly are you offering?"

"Any ten times you want my assistance in this regard, no matter what I am doing, I will help. If I decide to help beyond the offered ten, which most likely I will, you won't owe me anything in return."

Mycroft stared at John and asked, "How do you see our thoughts?"

"Your mind is pretty well put together and organized, like a filing cabinet. Your immediate thoughts come across on a mental cell phone like text messages. Sherlock on the other hand, has a Mind Palace. A literal palace modeled after Japanese shiros, which rests at the top of a high hill and at the bottom, is a river of useless information that he doesn't want, but can retrieve through dexterous means. He has detail upon detail, with separate wings and floors and while the main building is definitely a shiro, he has added western pieces like battlements, courtyards, towers, a barbican and best of all, an extremely detailed viaduct carved out of granite. He even has an entire wing dedicated to learning about me. His immediate thoughts appear on a never ending sheet of parchment with beautiful script. A sort of mix of calligraphy and cursive."

Sherlock obviously liked the sound of his mind. Detailed and much better than Mycroft's by far.

The 'British Government' was silent, but John could already see that he wasn't going to let such a thing slip.

"We have an accord."

"Yes!" came from both flatmates.

* * *

John shifted his mobile on his shoulder, "You have him in your sights?"

" _Yes,_ " Sherlock responded over the line.

"Good. I'll call you when he's safe to approach."

John hung up and stationed himself properly in the shadows of the rooftop. His target was exactly 2,500 yards away, stationed on another rooftop about three hundred yards from his intended target.

He adjusted himself on his stomach - since he was currently in Prone Position - and moved the scope a little before shifting the bipod in place. When he had everything lined up in the scope, he looked for his target and took a deep breath. Just like the old days.

He fired. The sniper collapsed, knocking their own weapon over, John Hamish Watson had successfully sniped a sniper. Bloody hell he was awesome.

He got to his knees and called Sherlock, who answered on the first ring.

"You can help him. Moriarty isn't actually  _watching_ them, content with the knowledge that his snipers will do their jobs."

" _Well done, John._ "

"Thank you. I'll meet you at the next location, okay?"

" _Yes._ "

John jumped to his feet and brushed himself off. He felt tingly from all the praise. Is that was it felt like for Sherlock when John always complimented him? If so, he could understand why the man always flushed. It felt good.

The next victim was a woman, sitting in a car in a parking lot. She looked ready to faint at any moment.

Unfortunately, for this one there were two snipers. This would require dexterity and expedience. Luckily though, they were positioned right next to each other. Just a small shift in the bipod and he'd be able to hit both of them within a ten second time frame.

Taking a deep breath, he texted Sherlock the details and then put the phone on silent.

John got into the zone again and proceeded to calmly dispatch of the first one and moved the bipod quickly enough to shoot the second one, before they could shoot the victim. Luckily the second one had jumped and looked over, giving John all the time he needed to do away with him.

He messaged Sherlock to move in and get the woman out.

He packed his bag again and climbed down the fire escape in order to hail another hack.

The next victim was an old woman who was blind. She actually didn't have snipers on her, just two men with guns pointed at her threateningly. Still, John was going to snipe them in return.

The poor woman was strapped to her recliner chair. Through the open window - foolish action by the way - he could see the two men standing side by side. The scope saw a far distance. If he hit the one and waited a couple of seconds for him to drop, he should be able to hit the other without a problem.

Sherlock was outside the door now, he sent a text.

John took aim and fired once. Then fired just as the second man went down.

He texted Sherlock back and told him to help her out.

**Good work, John.**

His cheeks warmed suddenly and he felt giddy. He impressed Sherlock Holmes. That was damn near impossible thing to accomplish.

He put the weapon away and got back down to the street, catching a cab to take him to Sherlock.

The man smiled excitedly as he got in the cab, semtex stashed in a paper bag. "Mycroft's people are with her and calming her down."

John smiled and gave the cabbie their address. It was all good now.

Mycroft was waiting at their apartment. Sherlock handed over the large paper bag full of semtex. "Do with them what you will."

"Of course."

John sighed and removed his glasses. The light from the kitchen caused a momentary pain to shoot across his eyes, but it faded pretty quickly.

Mycroft was staring at him and he stared back. And then he saw it.

"Mycroft, you hired a man not even two hours ago."

"Yes. Why is that important?"

"His name isn't Richard Brook, it's James Moriarty. He's the one who strapped all those people to bombs and had snipers on them. He was behind the cabbie that was killing people. He's responsible for smuggling the Black Lotus into the country. He needs to be put down and quickly. Think of Sherlock, but to a morbid extreme with a delirious enjoyment of torturing people."

Mycroft's blue eyes went wide and he pulled out his phone and proceeded to call his name confused assistant.

Sherlock was smirking, "Though I don't appreciate being compared to a psychopath, I will have to admit that he is interesting."

"Yes. Heaven forbid someone confuse psychotic tendencies with those of a sociopath," John answered sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"Exactly."

Mycroft ended his call and regarded them carefully, "Thank you for your assistance, John."

"Just a civic duty of sorts," he shrugged.

"Yes, well don't let take up any more of your evening, James Moriarty will be taken care of instantly.  _Find that memory stick, Sherlock_. Good evening to you."

He picked up the duffel bag John had been using to tote the rifle around in and departed from the flat hastily.

John took a deep breath before turning to Sherlock and asking, "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes."

Sherlock removed his coat and muffler as John made his way into the kitchen. The soft sound of the violin filled the flat and the two men were finally able to rest after a long day of running all about the city.

They shared a small grin.

* * *

Sherlock and John stood at the train tracks, staring at where the body of Andrew West had been. John looked around, wondering where all the blood could be.

The man who found him stated that there wasn't much at all. But if he'd been hit by a train or even brushed slightly, there would be a lot of blood. Meaning there was only one conclusion.

"He was on top of the train but fell off."

Sherlock nodded and smiled. "Very good. Now, Mycroft has sent the information to me. West has a potential brother-in-law who lives not too far from here. In fact, it's this way and overlooks the tracks."

Sherlock started off, leaving John to follow hastily.

Down a long street of brick houses, the doctor followed Sherlock, until he was taken up some stairs and Sherlock began tampering with a door.

"You  _do_  break into houses on a regular basis!" John accused in a whisper.

"I said I don't 'break'."

John scoffed. "Exactly who  _owns_  this flat?"

"Joe Harrison."

The door popped open with little resistance and Sherlock strode in like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn't just strolling into someone's home, unannounced.

"What if someone was home?"

"There isn't. Not like that would stop me."

John's eyes rolled. Of course it wouldn't.

Sherlock made his way to the first floor where the living area was. He pulled the curtain aside and huffed a laugh. He knelt down and pulled out his carry along magnifier. John leaned in and swore.

"Blood. Why'd he do it?"

The sound of the lock on the door alerted them to someone entering the house.

"We're about to find out. Let's ask him."

John's breath lowered instantly. His hand shifted to his holster and he withdrew his Browning very slowly. Approaching the doorway of the room, he stepped lightly.

Angling himself better, he slipped into the hallway slowly and managed three steps when the man by the door looked up and lifted the bicycle in his arms threateningly. John in turn, whipped out his gun and said, "Don't even  _think_ about it."

The man froze, eyes going wide.

John stepped aside and gestured for him to go into the living area.

"Sit on the sofa, hands where they can be seen at all times."

The man shakily complied.

Sherlock was still standing by the window, watching John with amusement.

Joe went on a whole spiel about how he didn't mean it. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And yet stealing the missile plans wasn't."

Joe explained that he had gotten into drug dealing and was in way over his head. How he and West had been out at a pub when the man opened up about the plans when he got too pissed to hold himself back. West showed him the memory stick, waved it in his face apparently. And all Joe could think about was using it to get out of debt.

He slipped it from the man easily. Took him home, but left with the plans in his pocket.

They saw each other a few days later and West knew that it was Joe who had taken the plans. A small scuffle outside the door, lead to West being pushed down the stairs. Joe didn't want to get into trouble so he lugged his soon to be brother-in-law up to his flat and out the window and onto the train that was right below it.

Sherlock 'asked' for the memory stick and Joe went fetch it for him.

While Joe went about his business, John and Sherlock shared a very long silent conversation full of Sherlock's internal questions and John's head either nodding or shaking in answer to them.

**Is he really getting the memory stick?**

Nod.

**Should we tell Lestrade?**

Forceful nod.

**Okay, okay. I'm just thinking, he may bring up the memory stick.**

John had to vocally answer for that. "Government given mission."

Sherlock nodded. "That works."

* * *

Mycroft was glad to have the plans back. He gave them a very generous payment for it, which Sherlock stated should go for extra purposes.

John didn't really care what it was for. Though they did need groceries.

Sherlock was bundled on the couch, actually watching the telly.

"No, no NO! Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

John ambled on over to see the screen, his head resting on the back of the chair, beside Sherlock's own head. "Can you please tell me how the turn-ups mean anything in the equation?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, aghast. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No."

The consulting detective sighed in a very put upon manner.

John rolled his eyes, knowing what was coming. "I knew I shouldn't have gotten you into crap telly."

* * *

"Uh….Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You are aware that you are wearing a sheet, right?"

"Yes."

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

"Okay then. Just a suggestion from one friend to another, but perhaps you should put some on, like right  _now_."

"Why would I do that? I prefer to be free of such constricting clothing on my day of rest."

"Well yes, but you need to have some consideration for your bisexual roommate whom you know is attracted to you and currently wishes to remove said sheet and bend you over the sofa armrest."

…

…

...

"You wouldn't."

"Sherlock I have experience with virgins. You wouldn't be the first and since I know you on a more personal level, I can easily spot what makes you aroused. Easily determine what would make you  _want it_. Such as praise. You enjoy it when I compliment you. But just me, no one else matters to you. Now imagine if I were to mix the praise with sex talk and dirty language...you'd be done for. So if you don't want to lose it on the couch, I suggest you at least go put some pajamas on in order to hide that aesthetically appealing figure from my wandering and greedy eyes."

"..."

Sherlock mouth dropped open and he turned from his - John's - laptop to give the doctor a shocked look.

"I highly doubt you'd-"

" _Sherlock_."

The consulting detective was off the couch and waddling back to his room, sheet falling as he went. By the time he close the door, John had gotten a nice view of two perfect globes of pale flesh. He sighed, running a hand through his short hair. Sherlock was a bloody tease, even if he didn't know it.

* * *

"You...are amazing."

Sherlock flushed at the praise and nodded slightly.

"Thai or Chinese takeaway?" John asked, pulling out his phone.

Sherlock mumbled, "Thai."

"Good. That's actually what I wanted."

"Then why didn't you just order it instead of asking?"

John paused in his dialing and gave Sherlock  _the look_. The one that Sherlock always gave people when they asked particularly stupid questions. "Sher, you'll be eating too you know. Your opinion  _does_ matter in this. And if you had wanted Chinese, I wouldn't have said a thing. We had what  _I_  wanted last night. Tonight is  _your_ choice."

Sherlock settled into his seat and gave John a calculating look. "That's why you ask every other day what I'd like for supper."

John didn't answer, since it was pretty obvious. He placed their order, knowing exactly how Sherlock liked his food to be cooked and since they ordered so many times in the last year and a half, the people in the restaurant knew their preferences which had yet to change.

"It should be there just as we arrive," he said, ending the call.

It was.

As Sherlock paid the cabbie, John paid for the food and together, they trudged up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock opened the door, John set the food on the kitchen table. Sherlock actually assisted in fetching the plates and after a few moments, they settled down for supper.

Sherlock had John's laptop on the table and was currently attempting to crack the pass code of the day.

After several minutes of typing and clicking, he finally looked up and said, "You took away the hint. I want a hint."

John smirked, "The great consulting detective can't deduce without a hint?"

"This is no time to be avoidant, John."

"It's something I care about."

John let his eyes linger a little longer, before returning to his food.

He could feel those heterochromatic eyes watching him. Deducing his every movement. There was a some typing and a click. Some more typing and another click. Sherlock was seriously exhausting everything he knew that John liked but was missing the most obvious of all things.

Sherlock let out an annoyed huff and glared at John. "Please?"

John paused in his chewing and looked up in shock. Sherlock was pouting, that same cute one he always used to get what he wanted out of John. He also asked nicely. Wow.

"Sherlock."

" _Please_."

"Sherlock."

" _Please!_ "

"No! I'm saying that it's 'Sherlock'. Bloody hell mate, pay attention."

Sherlock got that rare clueless look on his face. "But you said it was something that you car-"

"And I care about  _you_. Now hop to it."

John continued to eat, even as Sherlock finally shook himself off and got to whatever he was trying to do as he struggled for the past ten minutes.

He finished his food rather quickly and snorted as he thought about Sherlock. He could be quite obtuse sometimes.

"Stop laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing  _at_ you. I'm facing the other way and laughing at the  _thought_ of you."

"Hmph."

* * *

"You do know you type mostly about me in that, correct?"

"Yes. You basically do everything, unless there is something that I happen to know more of, you need my skills as a doctor or you need my  _ability_. Besides, how do you think we are getting so many clients?"

"I have a website."

"Yes, where you enumerate two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash. Sherlock, I reset this counter at nine. That was three hours ago. It's noon now and so far already five thousand seven hundred and two people have visited the blog and since the last update which was yesterday, over fifty-six comments have been made, none of them being me, you or Mrs. Hudson.

Though it may not seem kind, your site is boring. No hint of color, no pictures to grab attention. You haven't even chosen a good font. Seriously, only two to three hundred people actually visit it and don't you dare think that I haven't checked what people say about it. 'Drab' and 'dull', need I say more?"

A glance at Sherlock showed flushed cheeks and the  _pout_.

"Don't tell me you're embarrassed!"

Sherlock turned away and fiddled with his violin, plucking the strings in a firm, staccato rhythm.

"Sherlock?"

He was ignored.

John sighed and moved over to the man's side as he stared out the window, still pouting.

"Sherlock?"

John huffed and place his hand on the man's arm, forcing his attention from the street below, to John. Two different pairs of blue eyes met and John could see Sherlock's thoughts. The neat parchment was currently a mess with scrawled words. Words pertaining to John, embarrassment, blushing and so forth.

John reached up and petted the taller man's curls lightly. "Sherlock, I'm not saying it's bad. For you and the very  _very_ few people somewhat like you, it's perfect. But people with your level of intelligence are few and far between. You're in the minority and always will be. So of course we normal people aren't going to be pulled by theory and explanations of the inner machinations of subconscious thought and how people with proclivities toward scouts work tend to become homicidal maniacs. I seriously don't understand that by the way.

Listen, the human eye is drawn to color. Unless you are deliberately searching, your eyes will pass right by a shadow or a dark area. Whereas colors, tend to make you want to look. To satiate your curiosity. That's why construction workers wear bright orange and why traffic cones are orange. It's why the constables wear neon yellow and green.

It's why advertising is so important. Presentation  _is_ everything.

If I didn't know you personally and I had looked at your site, I would have assumed you to be a dreadfully boring individual, no lie. It's fine for  _you_ , but if you're trying to reach clients, your site as it is won't cut it.

I don't want you to feel like you aren't good enough, though. You are amazing. I tell that you nearly every day with many different synonyms to add to it. Don't let one mistake over something as silly as a website, get you down. You have so many spectacular qualities that the site is miniscule in comparison. Okay?"

And then Sherlock was smiling. That smile that was small, but spoke of how touched he truly was. Sherlock only ever gave that smile to John. John could see the words that Sherlock wanted to see but was unsure of how to phrase them correctly without feeling embarrassment, flashing through his mind.

**Thank you. You make me happy. What would I do without you John?**

The doctor smiled gently and carded his fingers through those unruly curls one more time, before going back to his laptop.

Sherlock was still smiling.

* * *

"John, I must protest to your choice of title. 'The Geek Interpreter'? Really?"

"Sherlock, other people like the names. What would  _you_ call it?"

"'The Linguistic Buffoon Who Knows Not His Head From His Arse'."

John snorted and smiled at his flatmate. Both pairs of blue eyes twinkling.

"As hilarious as that is, it is not going to endear people to your services. I'll stick with my name but thanks for the input."

"Hmph."

* * *

John smiled at the blue eyed man sitting across from him.

"Sherlock, you do realize that some people just don't have what it takes?"

"Nonsense. Everyone has 'what it takes'. Whether they have the drive to accomplish it, makes all the difference."

"Oh  _yeah_ , silly me for not understanding."

"You are forgiven."

John rolled his eyes halfheartedly. "Sher, you are something else."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing bad, believe me," John smiled.

"You're flirting again."

"We've established that pretty much everything I do concerning you is flirting, Sher. You don't have to bring it up all the time. Unless you  _like_ to point it out."

No response.

"Sherlock likes to be flirted with," John crooned softly. Teasingly.

Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly."

"Sherlock likes it when  _John_  flirts with him!"

"Hmph."

"That's not denial I'm hearing."

…

…

…

…

…

When it became obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to respond, John chuckled slightly and continued to read his paper.

Sherlock was never going to be boring.

Never.

**A/N: Another one done! * **Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch- is the name of a train station in Wales.****

**Remember, this is BAMF John. He's awesome.**

**Check out my cute little, John/Sherlock O/S. ' ** _According to You, I am Beautiful_ '. Sherlock reflects on his feelings for John. Fluffy.****

**How was it? Let me know in a constructive, respectful manner please? If you are rude or you flame me, do not expect a good response. Treat others how you wish to be treated. Assholes don't deserve kindness, remember that.**

**See ya! :D**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is out of the picture now. Mostly. ;)
> 
> Thank you to the people who are sharing this story on Tumblr and Tweeting about it. :)


	4. Deeper Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Scandal in Belgravia, BAMFJohn style.
> 
> Moriarty is dead, FYI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this entire chapter may seem a lot like a bunch of oneshots put together, but really they're just fun moments in John and Sherlock's lives that have relevance to their relationship and how they will grow closer.
> 
> John is unabashedly bisexual and comments about Sherlock a lot. He doesn't miss a chance to hit on his friend.

**A/N: Hello, people!**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

**I have no beta.**

**ENJOY! *There is some naughtiness at the end, but not full on what everyone is hoping for, sorry.***

John Hamish Watson refused to let it go without a fight. He'd seen how Sherlock had been eying it, but he wasn't giving up. He wanted it and it was the only one left. And why should Sherlock want it anyway? Sherlock didn't even care for food. He fussed and moaned every time John forced him to sit down and partake in that which kept him healthy. So why was he sending the doctor a challenging look over the last pot sticker in the bloody pan?!

"You don't even like food!" John protested.

"I like your food and some of Mrs. Hudson's food."

"Fine, but why must  _you_ have the last pot sticker?"

Sherlock employed use of the  _pout_.

"I  _like_ the taste of  _your_ food...John."

John gaped and pulled his fork away from the pot sticker, letting Sherlock gleefully stab it and shove it in his mouth quickly.

"That was unbelievably sweet, Sher."

"I am not 'sweet'."

"That's what  _you_ think."

* * *

"How is it that we got chained together?!" John asked as they ran.

"I may have made...a small miscalculation!" Sherlock answered.

When John easily began to overtake Sherlock in the running, he grabbed the younger man's hand and linked their fingers before dragging him along.

 

 

"How can Sherlock Holmes make a mistake?! I thought that was below you!"

Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not omnipotent, John. Even I have faults and can admit to the very few failures I have committed."

"So humble," John mumbled under his breath.

They cut through alleys and shadows. Yelling and gunshots spurred them into running even faster.

It was dark and cold. Right on the cusp of Autumn.

They cut a corner and John suddenly pulled Sherlock down, rolling them both under a large black van. He slapped a hand over Sherlock's mouth to muffle his loud breathing. In the process, he regulated his own breathing almost instantly, his lungs burning for air and yet he managed to remain quiet. Something he had learned in war time.

He watched as several footsteps pass by the vehicle, but stay relatively close in the vicinity. With a free hand, he withdrew his Browning from his holster and aimed it at a car across the street. It was a Rolls Royce. He felt a small amount of regret, but knew it was worth it. He shot the window out.

A loud car alarm filled the street and John aimed for another car, taking that window out. Once both were blaring loudly, people began coming to their doors and one man screamed in horror at the state of his window.

The men who had been chasing John and Sherlock all cursed and started running down the street with the owner of the expensive vehicle running after them, threatening to have them jailed.

John and Sherlock both sighed in relief, even as curious neighbors filled the street.

"Good thinking," Sherlock huffed in his ear.

John restrained the urge to moan. Sherlock's hot breath ghosting across his ear and neck. It was perfect and yet odd in a twisted way.

"I know," he whispered back.

John slipped the gun back in place and rolled out from under the van, Sherlock following him slowly. The van provided some form of concealment from the busybody neighbors who were speculating on what was going on.

The two slowly backed up and moved around the corner, until the people were out of sight. They both turned and began printing in the opposite direction. They needed to hail a cab.

"Do you have some sort of magical item at the flat that'll get these off us?"

Sherlock scoffed, "'Magic', John?"

"Hey, for all we know, it exists. How many people can read minds like I do?"

"The possibilities are endless, John. As for removing the cuffs, I have a hack saw and various pairs of Metal Cutting Snips. There should be no issue."

"I hope so."

It was only after the finally got a cab, that John spoke again.

"Did you get it?"

Sherlock smirked and pulled a small flip phone from inside his coat pocket. "Of course I did."

"All that for a bloody phone."

"It was entertaining at least. I enjoy watching your mind at work when you're thinking of ways to escape unharmed. It's rather intriguing."

John placed a hand over his heart and smiled at Sherlock. "That has to be  _the most_ sentimental thing anyone has ever said to me, Sherlock! I didn't know you were such a rakish fellow!"

"You become too excited where sentiment is concerned."

"Only if it has to do with you!"

No answer.

Sherlock was facing the window now, but John saw the flush. He was kind enough not to mention it though. Out of respect for Sherlock's feelings.

He hummed quietly to himself as the ride went by, wondering vaguely, how long it would take them to break the cuffs holding them together.

And he noticed, through the whole debacle, that he and Sherlock never once unlinked their fingers.

* * *

John didn't know why he was doing it, but he couldn't stop. He was sort of twitchy and really needed something to keep his attention caught, but there was nothing to do. He didn't feel like reading or watching crappy soap operas on the telly. He wasn't hungry and didn't even want tea and biscuits!

And then John got his hands on it!

Why Sherlock thought putting it on top of the fridge was going to keep John from finding it, he didn't know. But he found it. And it became his new toy.

The world's only consulting detective was rather obtuse a lot of the time. It took him three hours and fourteen minutes to notice John's new toy.

John had been sitting on the couch, completely enraptured by what was in his hands. He turned it over, running his fingers over the leather. It was of moderate length. Thirty inches. He smiled to himself as he waved it around, hand tightening on the handle just a bit.

For three hours, he sat there, until one small lack in reflexes had him forgetting to move his hand, thereby accidentally hitting himself, causing a loud 'whack' to resound in the flat. It burned slightly, but what was even stranger, was that the burn felt...good?

That caught Sherlock's attention and he looked over.

"John…..why do you have my riding crop?"

He looked up slowly and said, "It's my new toy."

"Riding crops are not toys, John."

John barely paid attention. He was reminiscing about the past. One of his escapades. It had involved flogging and whipping and it was hotter than fuck.

If he wasn't so worried about what the last thing the riding crop had touched was, he would have licked it.

"John?"

"Hm?" the doctor mumbled as he rubbed his cheek against the leather.

"John you are very nearly frotting against my crop."

John's gaze slid to the younger man and his brow raised questioningly, "Why do you even know what Frottage is?"

Sherlock was flushing suddenly, making the doctor smirk. "And now the mental picture of me frotting the crop is now going to be in your Mind Palace until you've deleted it. And you haven't gotten rid of it yet, interesting."

Sherlock's head snapped downward and he hunched slightly, trying to hide his eyes from the telepath.. And the most humorous part of it all, was that Sherlock still had yet to remove it from the Palace. Interesting.

John stood suddenly and moved into the kitchen. Repeatedly hitting himself with the crop was making his mouth dry. He needed some tea.

"John. I want the riding crop!" Sherlock's voice called out authoritatively.

John sniggered, "Are you going to switch me with it?!"

"What?! No!"

"Then no," he said with finality.

* * *

"Sher, seriously is this going to become a habit with you?"

"I do this when you aren't in the flat. And you weren't in the flat. I don't want to change."

"So you just wait for me to leave so you can strip naked and wrap yourself in a sheet?

…

…

…

…

...

"You're a bloody tease, Sher."

"I am not doing anything remotely provocative or amorous."

"Sher, just being yourself is alluring enough for me."

The consulting detective flushed.

John groaned and mumbled, "And once again, no pants."

 

 

* * *

"Ow!"

John's cerulean blues rolled as Sherlock proceeded to whine.

Another dangerous case and Sherlock had been injured. His face had suffered a bad hit with a metal pipe. Though it didn't fully impact, it still left a large cut from brushing across his brow.

Sherlock kept wincing at the peroxide.

"I wish you'd be more careful, Sher. Thank God they got you here and not on the cheek."

"You shouldn't be happy that I was hit at all."

"No exactly. Let this be a lesson to you, stop running off on your own!"

John reached over and smacked said attractive man upside the head.

"Ow! I'm injured, John!"

"Yes, an injured idiot. I swear, sometimes you try to kill me with worry. It's a good thing I have the Browning."

"I would have been fine," Sherlock grumbled.

"Sher, I've been hit with all manner of things and have treated various wounds. I know that if your head had been an inch more forward, he'd have bashed the side of your skull in and your chance of survival would have been less than forty percent. You are lucky.  _Very_ lucky."

John's serious manner, made Sherlock stop pouting. Instead, he seemed to understand how close he was to nearly dying.

"But why are you so angry?"

John sighed, "Because I care about and I don't want you to be hurt. So shut up and let me fix you up."

Sherlock probably didn't know, but he was smiling just a tad. John could see how happy those words had made the man.

It was smile reserved for John only.

John smiled in return.

* * *

"You have a crush on the Doctor."

Sherlock whipped around to look at John in what seemed to be horror. "I most certainly do not!"

"Yes you do. He's British, he's intelligent and you really wish you had a TARDIS.."

Sherlock's heterochromatic blue orbs glared at him. "I do not find the Doctor attractive in any way, shape or form."

"You don't need to think someone is physically attractive in order to be attracted to them. You like his mind. You happen to have an intelligence fetish."

Sherlock sputtered for a few seconds and John huffed a laugh.

"Are you trying to say that you'd rather be with an idiot, instead of someone who can discuss Quantum Theory with you?"

"Of course not! I can't handle idiots and being around one always would surely rot my brain."

"Well there you go. You like the fact that the Doctor is smart. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm attracted to intelligence as well. That's why all of my  _relationships_ have been with similarly minded people. I can't make small talk about ridiculous subjects. Also, clever minded people tend to have clearer minds that idiots and are more tolerable."

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds before asking, "So there's nothing abnormal about liking intelligence as a defining factor instead of physical interest."

"Sherlock, there is no set method to being attracted to someone. A lot of people judge only on physical appearance, which I find to be particularly rude. Like if the person isn't perfectly proportioned or they have scars. I for one, have a lot of scars. Not just from certain wounds in the battlefield, but from being a prisoner of war. Several months at the 'mercy' of the enemy was not pleasant and I made it out alive, though with many additional scars. Several people wouldn't accept me, even as something simple as a bed partner, all because I'm scarred. But that's how superfluous humans can be. Appearance means more to most than anything else these days. I for one, think it's great that you find intelligence attractive. It shows that you're so much different than the mindless cattle that make up the world these days."

Sherlock's worry seemed to fly out the window. And then came back full force, but for a different reason.

"You were a prisoner of war?"

"Yes. That's basically where the nightmares come from. Three months have had a lasting impression on me for years, but I don't mind it so much right now. At the time, I gave no information over, I didn't even scream. So long as I didn't lose my mind in front of them, I'm fine with the nightmares. Being strong in the face of danger is difficult, but it's better than giving in and being a coward."

Sherlock frowned, "Why would having scars matter when sex is involved?"

John shrugged, "They're a turn off for a lot of people. The shot that got me honorably discharged, left a large scar. The flesh around the affected area is distorted and unnatural looking. Because it isn't pleasant to look upon, it can kill the mood. Then if you add all the other scars I have, well, it's difficult to get people to continue unless they have a blindfold kink these days."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, before brushing a hand against John's scarred shoulder. "People are idiots. This only proves it even more."

"I know."

The sat in companionable silence for the next half hour. Until John had to break it be saying, "So like the original argument was going, you have a crush on the Doctor."

" _John_!"

* * *

"John it looks as if you're writing a romance novel about us."

John looked up from his typing to find Sherlock's head right beside his own, reading what he was typing.

"Excuse me?"

"How does the current shade of my eyes have any sort of relevance to the case?"

"Sher, that has to do with when you get the right idea! Whenever you get the correct reason for a murder or something regarding a dead body, your eyes seem to shine green. Since they aren't my eyes and it's most likely unintentional, I don't really know how to answer."

John continued to type while saying, "Besides, if I was writing smut about us, your eyes wouldn't be the first thing I'd write about. Believe me. Those cheekbones call for attention first and foremost."

Said cheekbones were flushed instantly.

"Okay then."

* * *

"Calm down, Sher. There's glass in your hair and the curls make it difficult to get them all out without hurting you."

The consulting detective sat cross-legged on the floor while John sat in his chair. He had on a pair of leather gloves and was carding his finger through those black curls very gently. Sherlock was facing him, with his head bowed. There was an entire 'puddle' of broken glass on the floor between them.

Sherlock sighed. "Is it supposed feel like this?"

"Feel like what?"

" _Good_?" the man asked in confusion.

"'Good' as in relaxed or as in something else?"

"I'm...not sure."

"Maybe you just like to have your head massaged? How about once we're certain that you're safe from any danger, I actually give you a massage?"

Sherlock let out a low groan, but John took that as an 'okay'.

* * *

"Wow, over two hundred thousand views just for today. Sherlock, prepare yourself for an onslaught tomorrow."

Sherlock scoffed, but that was his undoing.

The next morning at ten, came the first prospective client.

Sherlock turned down so many people, even someone whom John was positive was a part of the mafia. Though he strangely accepted a few computer nerds who had a fetish for comic books and something about all the scenarios coming true in real life. That one was definitely…..something else.

A man who believed that his aunt's or grandmother's - or something's - ashes had been exchanged with someone else's.

A woman who was poorly put together, claiming that he husband was cheating on her. Sherlock ended that one there with a simple 'yes'. Seriously, being overweight didn't give anyone an excuse to dress dowdy. There was no wonder that her husband was unfaithful.

Two little girls talking about not being allowed to see their grandfather's body we he died. John wasn't quick enough to stop Sherlock from telling them that people didn't go to heaven when they died. Instead, they were taken to a special room and burned. The trauma he inflicted on them. John still shook his head at the memory.

More people coming in with ridiculous questions and such.

Lestrade called them in for some cases.

Sherlock was just like always. The cops being on the scene for two hours and he comes in and solves nearly everything about the victim within a minute of mumbling to himself.

Anderson and Donovan try to gang up on him and John swiftly puts them off with a threat to tell Anderson's wife about her husband's infidelity.

"Who'd believe you two?"

"About a hundred thousand people who follow our day to day lives and the media who has become interested in us."

John motioned to his right, where several reporters were standing, cameras and microphones in hand.

"So if you don't want to face a lawsuit plus a possible loss of your jobs, I suggest you stand aside and mind your own business."

As they walked away, Sherlock was staring at him.

"What?"

"No one ever defends me. Sometimes Lestrade does, but mostly for propriety's sake. You actually do it for my  _feelings_."

"Well one, you forget that I personally know that their words do offend you on a small level and make you doubt yourself for not being more 'normal'. You shouldn't let such worthless individuals define who you are. You are amazing and they know that they'll never match you in anything, so they try to bring you down. They have no right to judge you for what makes you who you are."

…

…

…

"Thank you, John."

"It's fine."

* * *

"Don't mention the failed ones!"

"Why not? Technically, you got it correct, even if it wasn't the reason for the murder. Besides, people like to know that you're a human like them."

Sherlock scoffed and did a double take. "Why?"

"It makes you seem more real. Like there is a possibility for them to be like you even just a tad. Remember when I told you that Molly practically worships you and thinks you're the best person in the world? These people think the same, though they've never met you. They'd possibly link you to some genius superhero if they didn't know that even you could make mistakes."

Sherlock looked vaguely disturbed at the thought. "People aren't superheroes and it's foolish to attempt to make people into them. They don't exist. Raising hopes for no reason, ridiculous."

"You don't believe in heroes?" John asked as he typed.

"I don't believe in ' _superheroes'_ , John. Pay attention. There  _are_ heroes out there, but it's still vacuous to remake the people you see into them. People are people. Some have the fortitude and others don't. Placing all of your expectations on someone, can lead to disappointment."

"I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am."

John cracked a smile, "And have you actually  _met_ any real life heroes?"

"Of course I have."

John's brow furrowed and he turned to look at his flatmate in confusion. "Who?"

"You, John."

Then came the flush.

"You've saved my life and so many others all in the two years we've known each other. You were a soldier in the military for twelve years. According to you and the reports Mycroft gave me, you were a prisoner of war for three months. You were even shot in the shoulder, a couple of inches above the heart, while you rushed out to assist your men. And even when you were shot, you continued to work on the men around you, successfully bringing them all back to safety and waiting two hours before finally getting treatment for your own wound. And because you took so long to ensure the safety of your comrades, you suffered. If you had foregone them and focused on yourself, you wouldn't have been honorably discharged. But of course you value the lives of everyone else above your own. It's  _that_ that makes you a hero, John."

John would swear that he teared up just a little. It was very sweet.  _Sentimental_ , whether Sherlock knew it or not.

"And to a lesser extent, Lestrade is one as well."

"Huh?"

"A hero. He's a cop and even though he's on a Detective Inspector, he gets into some serious situations and he personally helped me with the cocaine."

"How…" John began slowly, making Sherlock look at him expectantly. " _Sentimental_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Just had to ruin it, didn't you?"

"No, no! I happen to think it's adorable that you think of Greg in such a way."

"I am not adorable."

"Yes you are."

"I am not!"

"You won't win this argument, because I will list everything amazingly adorable about you, if you don't drop it."

"Hmph."

John grinned in victory.

* * *

"Will you allow me to choose the name for this case?"

John frowned and looked at his friend inquiringly. "Uh...sure. Why do you want to though?"

"To prevent you from choosing something like, 'Belly Button Murders' or something along those line."

John snorted, "I was going to say, 'The Navel Treatment'."

"Better...but not by much.  _I'm_  choosing."

"Well fine then."

As they wound their way through the back of the theater, Lestrade caught up to them.

"There's a lot of press outside guys."

"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock stated calmly.

John coughed and shook his head, "I'm not so sure about that, Sher."

"John's right. Now you are considered a once in a lifetime phenomenon. Both of you. A lot of them specifically want photographs of you two."

The consulting detective sighed, "For God's sake."

He froze, causing John to bump into him. Suddenly, there was a hat being placed on his head by Sherlock.

"Try to cover your face with that."

Sherlock moved to put his own hat on and John halted him, shaking his head. "That doesn't match. Wait a tic."

John entered the small dressing room Sherlock had filched the hats from and found a muffler in the exact same style at Sherlock's chosen hat. He returned and began removing the man's own wrapping, before stuffing in his coat pocket.

"I refuse to have the press think that you can't match your clothing. There! You look great!" he smiled as he shifted Sherlock's collar up in that way that made him look cool.

Sherlock was slightly flushing, but he tipped his hat in appreciation, fixing John's own in the process.

"Are you two ready yet?" Lestrade asked from down the hall, where he paused to wait for them.

John huffed a small laugh, "Yeah, sorry."

"They can wait a few minutes. Besides, solving such a big case like this is good for your public image!"

"Why should I care what the public thinks of me?" Sherlock murmured to John.

"You shouldn't. However, a popular  _kind_ opinion gets you more cases."

"Hm. I'm a private detective, that last thing I need is a 'public image'."

Lestrade led them out the door and they were assaulted by cameras and ridiculous amounts of flashes and questions that they politely ignored. Well, John politely ignored and Sherlock just swayed past the people, not giving them his attention.

The two shared a knowing grin and when a flash went off, they knew that it was captured.

"Tomorrow morning's headline is going to be, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson: Partners or  _Partners_?" John laughed as he thought about it.

"People truly have nothing better to do. And that name was actually good, John."

"Thank you for your glittering support, Sher."

"Hmph."

* * *

"Must you wear those jumpers?"

"I like them."

"But they're so...bland. They don't fit your character."

"True, but hey are comfortable which I love and they make me unassuming and hide my holster rather well if I do say so myself. Underestimation can be a man's greatest weapon after all."

Sherlock paused as he attempted to (illegally) split an atom.

"That's actually ingenious of you, John. Good show."

"Thanks."

…

…

…

"But could we possibly get you better jumpers at least? Maybe ones that match your eyes or at least bring out the color in them?"

"Perhaps."

"Good."

* * *

Their very next case came in a very interesting way. A portly man with dark, short hair appeared in their flat, looking for them.

Sherlock placed him in a chair in the center of the room and made him explain without being 'boring'.

Next thing, John is being forced into a taxi and told to go with the man to the crime scene.

John arrived in time for the man in charge of the case to assume that he was Sherlock. He had to tell the man that Sherlock business to handle at the flat and sent him to hook up the video chat on his laptop.

The man accepted his assistance without a problem.

And so John went through the rigorous process of setting everything up. When he finally saw Sherlock on the other side, he flushed.

"Of course you get naked as soon as I leave. You couldn't do that while I was there?"

"Oh shut up. I obviously cannot with you threatening to bend me over the sofa every time I do, can I?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't. Besides, we agreed that I won't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. No go back."

"When did we agree to that?"

"Yesterday. Show me the grass.  _Slowly_ …..stop!"

John angled the laptop for the ma and waited for the deductions to come.

"Closer to the grass, please."

"Sher, you do realize that I was at the store yesterday, shopping for food and fighting with the chip and pin machine, don't you?"

"Hm."

"Do you just keep talking when I'm away?" John asked, curious.

"I don't know, how often are you away?"

"How you even miss my lack of presence?!"

Sherlock sighed on the other side of the chat. "I don't. It's a joke. Now show me the car that backfired."

John shifted the laptop around so that it was facing up the grassy slope.

"That's the one that made the noise?"

"Yes," John said firmly.

"Pass me over to the Detective Inspector."

"Fine, but if you're too rude, I  _will_ use the mute button."

"I'll behave…..maybe."

"And that's as good as I'll get from you."

As he walked, he heard Sherlock pretty much degrade the man who came to them in a worry. Telling the DI how it was impossible for him to be the killed an raffling off everything about him that meant that he wasn't. John's hand held his head as he hoped beyond all hope that Sherlock didn't dig himself a hole.

The laptop was passed back a moment later, with Sherlock telling the DI to check the stream for the blunt instrument that John had mentioned a few moments prior.

He placed the laptop on top of the cab that was still waiting for him to be done with everything, when he saw Mrs. Hudson come into the background of the camera.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is behind you with two unknown and well dressed men."

Sherlock turned and all that John saw was a dark hand closed the laptop and his connection was off.

He frowned and turned to the DI, "Whoever that was just cut the connection, sorry. I think you should still do as he suggested and check the stream. The attack came from that direction, judging by the wound on his head."

Before John could say anything more, one of the Sergeants working with the DI came over, saying, "Doctor Watson, it's for you."

John had assumed that it was the phone he was holding, until the man said, "No sir, the helicopter."

John gaped for a moment, before shutting the laptop off and closing it. He fetched his bag from the cab, paid the driver a good sum and headed off down the grassy hill to enter the Westland aircraft. He'd seen enough in his time to recognize which helicopter was which.

This whole situation spelled, M. Y. C. R. O. F. T.

The man flying it did not say a thing to him and he didn't ask questions. What was the point? When Mycroft wanted something, he got it.

The ride was slow going, at least, it appeared that way. Distance from high above the ground was always hard to judge. Thing that looked to be miles away could be a mere hundred feet.

When they arrived at their destination, John was greeted by a primly suited man with a clean haircut. The man greet him as 'Doctor Watson' and shook his hand firmly.

John looked around as the man led him into the very large and very old building and all he could wonder while they walked, was what the bloody hell did Mycroft need with him at Buckingham Palace?

Paintings, statues, suits of armor, high ceilings and gorgeous chandeliers. Everything a palace should be on the inside.

When he saw Sherlock in the drawing room the man had led him to, sitting there in only a sheet, he flushed a little. Of course he couldn't even get dressed for Buckingham Palace. And there was a pile of neatly folded clothing resting on the coffee table before him!

 

 

John actually walked on over and sat beside his friend on the lovely sofa.

He calmly folded his hands on his lap and looked around for a moment before turning to Sherlock and giving him a once over. "You're not even wearing pants, are you?"

"No."

"Okay," John nodded and looked away from his attractive friend who was only covered from the world by a white sheet.

He couldn't help back look back at Sherlock, only to see the man staring at him expectantly. Humor in his mind. They both burst into a fit of giggles. They were always giggling at the most inappropriate of moments.

Once he calmed down, John asked, "Why are we at Buckingham Palace? I'm seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray." That got him a snicker from Sherlock. "What does Mycroft want? Or are we here to see the queen?"

There were footsteps at the Sherlock answered, "Oh! Apparently, yes."

John turned and saw only Mycroft, but the humor hit him instantly and again, they were reduced to obnoxious laughter.

Mycroft did not appreciate their humor, if his scowl and his words were anything to go by. "Just once can you two behave like grown ups?"

John snorted, "We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants. He's a High Functioning Sociopath and I'm an Undiscovered Ocular Telepath. I wouldn't hold out too much hope, just so you know."

Sherlock was glaring at his brother, "We were in the middle of a case, Mycroft."

Mycroft scoffed and said that the answer was obvious. He then grabbed the bundle of clothing and held it out to Sherlock, who sneered.

Mycroft sighed in a very fashion and said, "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very  _heart_ of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."

"What for?"

"Your client."

Sherlock stood, matching his brother in height and said, "An my client  _is_?"

"Illustrious!"

The three men turned to see another man enter the drawing room.

"In the extreme," he continued.

John stood immediately, seeing that the man before them was important, despite his job as an assistant.

"And remaining - I'll have to inform you - entirely anonymous."

He then turned and smiled at the older Holmes. "Mycroft," he extended a hand.

"Harry," Mycroft smiled uncomfortably, shaking the man's hand politely. "May I just apologize for the state of my little brother."

"Full time occupation, I imagine," the man smiled lightly.

John had his full attention then, the man's eyes lighting up instantly.

"And you are Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, former Brigadier of the 1st Armoured Infantry Brigade. It's a pleasure to meet you. I have heard many stories about the medals that you've earned and I must admit to being impressed, sir."

John smiled congenially and shook the man's hand.

"My employer and I are tremendous fans of your blog."

John nodded with an interested look, though he'd pretty much seen everything in the man's eyes already. Including who the 'employer' was and who they were looking for, An old flame from the past. He felt excitement fill him instantly as he thought of the riding crop.

"Your employer?" he asked interestedly, as was probably expected of him. Mycroft's knowing gaze nearly had him snickering.

Harry nodded, "Particularly the one about the aluminium crutch."

John smiled and turned to wrinkle his nose at Sherlock who rolled his eyes. That had been a name they had disagreed on.

Harry then moved in the Sherlock. "And Mister Holmes, the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

"Yes, the precaution of having a good coat and a short friend."

John glared halfheartedly. He wasn't that bloody short. He was perfectly average at 170 cm and it wasn't his fault that Sherlock was seven inches taller!

"Mycroft, I do not take anonymous clients, I like mystery only on one end of the case, not both, it's too much work."

He bade Harry a 'good morning' and turned to leave. Mycroft then did something that John swore he'd be internally thanking the man for-for the next decade. He stepped on Sherlock's sheet, causing it to unravel and fall to the floor, Sherlock barely managing to catch enough to cover his deliciously firm arse.

"This is a matter of national importance, grow up!" the older Holmes hissed.

"Get off my sheet!"

"Or what?!"

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock shrugged, though John could tell he didn't necessarily like that idea very much. That didn't mean John didn't however.

" _Please do_ ," John said, the same moment Mycroft countered with, "I'll let you."

Sherlock turned slightly to give John a narrow eyed look and the doctor shrugged. "What? You know my sexual orientation and I have warned you countless time not to waltz about in only a sheet when around me. You're practically advertising that which cannot be obtained. And  _that_ is why I call you a tease."

Mycroft was giving John an appraising look and John rolled his eyes.

"Who is my client?!" Sherlock asked suddenly, to which Mycroft told him to deduce it.

"Sher, drop it and I'll cook your favorite meals for a week."

…

…

…

"Two weeks."

"Done."

Sherlock turned around, still clutching his sheet to himself and grabbed the bundle of clothing. "Well, turn around!"

The three men did so, though John was reluctant and wished there was a mirror positioned where he needed it, in the room.

Once Sherlock was properly attired, they all sat down and began to discuss the 'special case'.

Sherlock had crossed his legs in an imperious sort of manner, keeping his stiff upper lip in place. John rolled his eyes at the theatrics.

Tea was requested by Harry and soon, they were delicately sipping from fine china.

Harry cleared his throat, "My employer, has a problem."

Mycroft took over then, "A matter has come to light that is extremely delicate and could potentially be criminal in nature. And in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

Sherlock pointed out that Mycroft had an entire police force and the Secret Service at his beck and call, so why did he need Sherlock at all?

Harry sighed, "Don't people come to you for help, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not anyone formally of the Navy."

"This is a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust," Mycroft pointed out.

John couldn't help but ask, "You don't trust your own Secret Service?"

"Naturally not! They all spy on people for money."

John grinned at the answer. It was true.

Harry turned to Mycroft and said, "I do think we have a time table."

Mycroft cleared his throat and pulled a picture from a suitcase on the floor. "What do you know about this woman?"

Sherlock took the picture and said, "Nothing, whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft chided lightly. "She's been the center of two political scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants, separately."

"You know that I don't concern myself with trivia," Sherlock stated.

"She's professionally known as, 'The Woman'. There are many names for what she does but she prefers the term, Dominatrix."

Sherlock repeatedly the word disinterestedly, looking bored.

"Don't be  _alarmed_ , it has to do with sex," Mycroft teased calmly, making his brother glare minutely.

"Sex doesn't alarm me, Mycroft."

"How would  _you_  know?"

John scoffed, unable to help himself. "May I remind you that you have no business to bring up anything regarding sexual experience, Mycroft Holmes," he said with a meaningful look, making Sherlock snorted and giggle into his fist.

Mycroft glared at him, though he could tell that the man was embarrassed. "Her name is-"

"Irene Adler," John finished.

Mycroft assumed that he had gotten her name from his mind, but Harry leaned forward, "You know of her?"

"Know  _of_ her?" John asked incredulously. He gave a chuckle, "I  _know_ her!"

Sherlock'd head whipped around and he stared at his friend in shock. Mycroft and Harry had similar looks of astonishment on their own faces.

John chuckled, "I used a name I have earned during my 'vacations' with my mates. We'd get together and visit other continents. America, Canada and Mexico for North America. China, South Korea and Japan for Asia. And we stayed in Europe the last time, going to Madrid, Rome and France, before coming back to London. During those three different 'vacations' I was the only person to get a leg over on each continent and on multiple occasions too. They gave me the nickname John 'Three Continents' Watson and I used that moniker on the last night of our last 'vacation', in a fancy club in London where I met one, Irene Adler."

John was smirking at the memories. Before he'd gotten so scarred and sex as easier to have. Also, there were no strings attached and he didn't have to worry about never seeing anyone ever again, because they were all strangers. Though Irene and he had gotten a little closer than John had with any of the other women.

"Can you part with the information you have on her?" Harry asked, snapping out of his shock pretty easily.

John nodded.

"Irene is intelligent and plans several steps ahead for different scenarios. In her line of work, she can attract negative attention and needs to be able to save herself at a moment's notice.

I say 'work' because she is literally registered as a BDSM Practitioner, for a certain price. She doesn't take just anyone and isn't some simple prostitute. Half of the time, her exploits don't even involve intercourse. And her price range, depends on the services selectively rendered.

The Dom in a BDSM relationship, must have a good solicitor and must have contracts. Irene herself has ten different contracts with limitations on each thing. For example,  **Contract 1**  deals with light bondage. That is it. Simple tying of the hands together behind the back with simple rope or a silk scarf, nothing particularly intricate about it.  **Contracts 8-10**  however, all deal with bondage, gagging, flogging, whipping, role playing, picture play and humiliation.

 **Contract 10**  is the most serious. Bondage, gagging, flogging, whipping, role playing, picture playing,  _public_ humiliation, blood play, suspension, torture, wax play, cock and ball torture and going so far as to use erotic electrostimulaion and forbidding sexual release.

Irene always has her clients sign the contract that involves that which they are looking for. She is very precise in the wording of her contracts and depending on how serious the chosen contract is, she can do what she wants once they sign. If a member of the royal family has indeed signed one of Irene's contracts, there may be no way out of it."

The two government officials shared a horrified look.

"The member in question signed  **Contract 8**  as you have stated. You are sure there is no avenue to use in order to procure the evidence from her?"

John thought about what he knew about Irene. "She took photographs, didn't she? That is the only thing that could be considered 'evidence'." John already knew he was correct especially since he saw the answer in both men's heads.

"Irene can be compromised with. If you give her something she wants in return, she'll return the photos to you. Though to be honest, she doesn't use the photos for anything bad. She pays a PI to find information on possible clients for her, using that information against them if they try anything unsavory. The pictures are just for  _stimulation_ if you understand the meaning. A compromise can be made but she has to choose it and it could be anything. And I do mean  _anything_. She would never choose money or sex, she's gets enough of either on a daily basis. She'd wisely choose something that keeps her safe or benefits her in some way. Like immunity from certain laws. She has garnered some negative attention from certain individuals and having the laws bent in her favor, would be highly preferable for a woman like her."

Mycroft and Harry turned to deliberate with one another. As they did that, Sherlock poked John in the arm.

"Did you pay for her services?"

He smiled, "No. At the time, I was only a Captain and it was my last 'vacation' before things became heated. We got talking in the club and it was legitimate talking, not made up rubbish. She didn't lie once and was very straightforward about her profession. When I didn't react negatively or immediately attempt to get in her knickers, she offered to 'reward me' - you could say - for all of my hard work. And of course I looked into her eyes. She is almost as organized as your brother. Almost."

"How many, exploits did you have to earn you your...title?"

Sherlock was looking at the tea set on the table, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Too many. You don't want to know."

"I do!"

John huffed, "Eighty-three altogether."

"Men and women?"

"Yes."

"And were you in charge all the time?"

"Do you mean to ask if I did the fucking in regards to the blokes I was with?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes."

"Oh."

There was a clearing of a throat and both flatmates looked over to Mycroft, who was looking serious.

"John, since you seem to know Ms. Adler on a personal level, would you be willing to be the intermediary for us? Requesting an exchange would be much easier if she were comfortable with the representative posing the proposition."

"Sure. I have nothing better to do at the moment and it's be nice to catch up with an old friend."

Sherlock was pouting again and John placed a calming hand on his shoulder, "She's very engaging. I think you'll like her."

"I'm married to my work."

"I didn't mean like that and you know it."

Sherlock huffed.

* * *

"Of course she lives in such an affluent neighborhood," John commented as they stepped out of the limo that escorted them to Irene's home.

Sherlock straightened out his coat, lifting the collar in that oh so cool way and demanded, "Punch me in the face!"

"What?"

"I said, 'punch me in the face', didn't you hear me?"

"I hear a multitude of things when you speak and sometimes 'punch me in the face' is among them, though it's usually subtext."

Sherlock's armed lashed out and John spun instantly, catching the approaching appendage and twisting it slightly while lifting Sherlock off the ground and flipping him over his shoulder. The consulting detective hit the ground hard, all air leaving him in one quick breath. He blinked up at John and managed to say, "I wasn't expecting that."

"You tend to forget that I was a soldier, as well."

"But you were a doctor."

"I had bad days and I patched up just as much as I injured. Never forget it, Sher."

"Right!"

John helped the younger man to his feet and proceeded to brush his off, removing leaves from his curls and dirt from his coat.

"I'm just going to knock on the door. No need for such lies. She already knows that we're here, after all."

John waltzed on over to the door of the appropriate home and knocked three times as customary. A red haired woman answered and she towered over John in her high heels, but he smiled anyway. Young Kate was certainly spry and energetic.

"Good afternoon miss, is Irene in?"

Green eyes narrowed, 'You know mistress? Have you ever signed her contract?"

"I signed  **Contract 5**  about six years ago, under the name Captain Watson."

Kate's eyes widened and she stepped aside, "Mistress was expecting only Mr. Holmes, she'll be thrilled to see you again. She talks of your encounter frequently."

John smiled and gestured behind him to the still gasping man. "That's Sherlock."

Kate led them to the fanciful drawing room and John asked if he could get Sherlock a glass of water for his throat, explaining about their little altercation outside in the street. She showed him to the kitchen and filled a small glass up and retrieved a napkin.

When he returned to the drawing room, his mouth dropped. Sure, he'd seen it in Kate's mind, but in person was so much better. Irene stood before Sherlock who was sitting on one of the sofas, completely bare as the day she was born. She turned and her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open and letting the white strip of cloth that had been caught between her teeth, to flutter to the ground.

She turned immediately and launched herself at John, who barely managed to save the glass, though some of the water did spill over the edge and onto the smooth creamy skin on Irene's back. She gave a small squeal at the sensation and looked John in the eye.

"It's been a while,  _Captain_  Watson."

Her voice was suave, sultry. She was trying her hardest to get him hard.

"It has, Irene. I see you met my friend/flatmate/employer/child/consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes."

She smiled, "Yes I did. I wasn't expecting to see  _you_ ,  _Captain_."

John frowned slightly, "I was invalided home two years ago and I was Brigadier by the time I was honorably discharged."

Irene's eyes lightened considerably, "More power, hm? I noticed you didn't say  _lover_  in regards to your Sherlock."

John shrugged and whispered, "It's a small hope I have. He's being slowly seduced into sentiment, whether he knows it or not."

"Good luck.  _Those cheekbones_ ," she moaned.

"I know. And that hair that I just want to wrap my fingers in."

" _Brigadier_ , I wish you all the luck in your seduction," She smirked with an added wink.

"Thank you, Irene."

She pulled away, completely comfortable in her own skin and gave a small pose, before taking a seat on the sofa adjacent to Sherlock's, who was staring at them in horror.

John handed the man the glass. "Drink it slowly."

Sherlock accepted the drink, staring at John with those penetrating eyes. Then came the bloody  _pout_.

"Sherlock, if you're so against my flirting with others, I'll make sure to flirt more often with you."

For some reason, that actually made Sherlock's mood lighten immediately.

John silently patted his curly head and gave Irene his attention once more.

"I'm going to be blunt, I was asked to compromise with you over the photographs you have on the member of the royal family. Technically, they were going to hire Sherlock, until they found out that I knew you and about your contracts and how you have everything perfectly worded and only a compromise of your choosing will make you give the photographs over."

"I knew that Mr. Holmes would come and I had an entire game planned out, but since you're here, I don't feel like my plan now. So...how far are they willing to go, to get these photographs back?"

"They already know that you have to choose. So, what'll it be?"

Irene looked at the mirror and John saw it in her eyes, he safe, which held a small phone. And the phone literally held her life. He'd also been shocked to see that she had been in touch with Moriarty and had yet to learn that he was dead.

"There are some Americans who have been following me around. The last month, they've been following me and I know what they want, however I will not be returning it to them. Their boss signed  **Contract 10**  after all."

John's eyes went beyond wide as he saw the very encounter in her mind. It was detailed and definitely humiliating. How many men would be willing to let something like that go? Even though they signed a contract?

John stood from his seat beside Sherlock and casually went to open the window on the far side of the room, eyes surreptitiously scouring the street and houses. He spotted a black vehicle that wasn't there when he and Sherlock arrived. He also noticed the stillness.

He moved away from the window, pulling his Browning from his holster and backing himself against the wall near the door. He motioned for Sherlock to begin his deductions of Irene, while he prepared for the assault.

Sherlock turned on Irene and began grilling her like he was at a barbecue. He pointed out her measurements, her real hair color, her shoes size, how she was bisexual like John, her height, weight, what she during her last 'session' and even going to so far as to tell her that her monthly was coming the next day.

They began to banter heavily, Sherlock aiming invasive questions at Irene and the Woman easily sidestepping them and unnerving Sherlock with brilliant deduction of her own. Some of them regarding John.

They made a game into finding out where the safe was and John smirked, because he already knew it.

Sherlock sent him a glower and when John nodded his head toward the mirror, Sherlock grinned and hopped to his feet.

"At least it isn't a swinging painting like so many cliched people have," Sherlock commented as the mirror moved up by technology.

"You've always worn gloves while entering the code, so it's nearly impossible to determine which buttons you used. However, numbers five through nine are completely untouched."

Irene nodded, looking impressed. "I can understand the Captain's attraction to you now. Why is goes far beyond the physical."

"It's a six digit code. I wonder what it could be, with only number one through four being used."

Irene folded herself comfortably on the sofa and said,"I've already told you the combination."

"No you haven't."

"Deduce, angle face."

A small noise outside the room alerted John to the intruders. Three men, judging from the footsteps. The door slammed open and he waited for the third man to enter the room, before charging him. Good thing the door opened in a way that it blocked him from the attackers.

John quickly wrapped his arm around the last man and shot him in the back with his Browning, making him scream. But he was already in action, ignoring the man's screams and shooting the second man somewhere in the torso. The last was trained on him now, but he was using the man's friends as a meat shield.

"So you're the American?" John asked conversationally.

"I believe hat we are at an impasse," the American stated clearly.

John smirked and shook his head. "Not in the least. I'm not the only armed person in the room. Turn around."

A scoff, "I'm not so foolish to turn my back on the enemy."

"You already did," Sherlock's condescending tone rang throughout the room. He moved to the man's side with his own gun, which he had gotten under advice from John. Irene was armed with a small pistol of her own and syringe in the other hand, standing behind him very closely.

"Drop the weapon, or we all shoot," John threatened.

The man's eyes went wide, before the gun moved upward quickly, toward his own head. Irene jumped forward and shoved the syringe into his neck before he could blow his own brains out.

Sherlock removed the gun from his grip and they watched as the man fell to the floor with a thud.

John shoved his captive away from himself, letting the already dead man fall to the floor. Shot to the lung apparently gone awry.

Irene stood fully once more, smiling to herself. "I'm glad I got to use that still. I had originally planned to use it on your man,  _Captain_."

"Well aren't I just tickled to know that things changed," John grinned back.

"Hm...quite."

And they just stood there, grinning like idiots. Sherlock began to giggle and John followed suit, until soon all three were laughing uncontrollably.

"God, we laugh at the worst of moments, I swear," John shook his head.

"I don't think so," Sherlock's head shook. "If you find something humorous, laugh. Why should the moment matter?"

"Because there are three dead Americans on the floor who were here to kill us all and to steal Irene's livelihood."

Irene moved back and sat down, "So, you pretty much just did what I was going to ask for. All on your own. I must admit  _Captain_ , seeing you in action...has me rather  _hot_.  **Contract 5** , you and I for the evening and you can have any pictures you want."

John returned the heated gaze and said in a very low purr, "Where do I sign?"

* * *

When the whole situation with Irene was handled, Mycroft had quite literally, gaped at John, when he explained what she had wanted in return for the large envelope of photos.

"So you actually…"

"Yes. It was great. Irene happens to find battle scars particularly appealing. One of the few women I know who do."

"I...see."

"Oh yes! She has a fetish for men in uniform and takes the 'Captain Watson' bit pretty far in the role playing."

" _Oh_."

Both Holmes brothers were decidedly uncomfortable talking about John's obvious sex life and experience. Since both had never done anything of the sort in their lives, they were unsure of how to proceed. Talking about sex as a whole was fine, but talking about two people having sex was completely different and they both knew that.

John just sat there and grinned through it all, reveling in their discomfort. It was fantastic! He'd have to send Irene a bouquet of roses expressing his gratitude.

"That had to be the easiest case we've ever done. This isn't making the blog."

* * *

John woke up and went through his normal routine of actually 'waking'. After five minutes of staring at the ceiling and yawning repeatedly, he manage to get himself awake enough to move off the bed.

A stop in the bathroom and then he made his way into the kitchen for make some much needed tea. Tea made the world go round.

There already a cup waiting for him and it was still warm. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, which meant that he wasn't home. But he'd only left a few moments prior if the cup was still heated. There was a note on the table beside the cup and he huffed a laugh. How sweet of him to let John sleep in, even if it was only for a few minutes. And how nice to leave a note too.

 

 

And Sherlock didn't think that he was capable of being nice. John would enjoy teasing him about it later on.

* * *

"Can I please have it?"

"No."

"You're not doing anything with it as of this moment and I know you have no plans for it any time soon."

"That matters not. I do not wish to have you frotting my crop again."

"Oh, Sher, if I  _truly_ frotted your crop, you'd  _know_!"

"The answer is still 'no' John."

"Perhaps I'll frot you then."

Sherlock's typing fingers froze and John waited with breathless anticipation for what would come next.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, pulling crop from under his arse and handing it over. "There better be no unsavory substances on it when it is returned, John."

"Right!" John nodded firmly. "No cum, got it!"

" _John_!"

* * *

"Sher, I think you need to have sex."

The consulting detective turned to look at him in confusion and asked, "Why?"

"It's relaxing, it feels good. Can be therapeutic for some people. I mean, you're so strung up right now and I think a little  _release_  would be good for you. At least a good wank!"

"John, do you understand the level of trust required for such a thing to occur? I do not trust willingly and I refuse to do such trivial actions that do not interest me, all for transport."

A slowly, naughty grin spread across John's lips and he couldn't help but lean across the table and purr, "Now we both know that's not true, Sher. In the last year, you've taken up the need to relieve yourself of some of your own frustrations. You forget that I see  _everything_."

Sherlock paled instantly and John could see the embarrassment entire his thought process, completely scribbling across all the well written notes the man had been taking in his mind. Sherlock's face flushed and his eyes dilated. He was remembering his latest session and what he had thought about while doing it.

John smiled coyly and trailed his fingers across Sherlock's hand, drawing insignificant little doodles on the man's soft skin.

"I must say Sher, you've got quite the imagination. That Mind Palace of yours is just so... _inundated_  with visuals of  _me_ of all people. Flattering, I assure you."

John was leaning in closer, enjoying how Sherlock had gulped audibly as he entered the man's personal space.

"Does this mean that my little virgin doesn't want to be a virgin anymore?" John breathed, smiling when Sherlock's brain went crazy.

**Yes! Please yes! I want it! John! Please, John!**

And yet the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth were more along the lines of, "Not yet."

John sighed a little in disappointment, but he wouldn't push. Sherlock wasn't ready for such as of the moment, but he was getting there. One step at a time. However, just because he wanted to remain a virgin for the time being, didn't mean they couldn't do... _other_...things.

"At least let me help you with that problem you're having. It must be so difficult to concentrate when you're so  _stiff_."

John of course was referring to the growing bulge in Sherlock's trousers, making the younger man flush even more.

"Y-you'd actually do  _that_?!"

"I have given head to men and women before, Sher. I'd be happy to assist you," John winked, trailing his finger over his friend's arm and down his chest, stopping when they brushed the zipper.

"What do you say, Sher?"

"S-sure."

John's eyes widened in shock, before lowering in pleasure. He pulled Sherlock's seat away from the table completely, before dropping to his knees and undoing the fly quickly.

Sherlock never got another coherent word in, because John had taken him in after a few seconds of appreciating the size. He purred happily, enjoying what he was doing.

Fellatio on men had always made him hot. He didn't understand, but he probably got off more than the recipient did. Something about the smooth texture and the ridges and veins. The flavor. He shuddered. He had a bit of a cum fetish too.

Sherlock was moaning above him. Something else he loved. The noises that people made when he took them, were unforgettable and enough to sear inside his mind. Sex was always something he had enjoyed to have on the mind.

Sherlock's long, delicate and beautifully pale fingers clenched at his hair and he panted John's name over and over.

It made John's own erection stir. To hear the man he truly cared for, possibly even loved, say his name like that, was just bliss.

He shoved down fully and sucked as hard as he could, making Sherlock jerk and scream as he came down John's throat. And John didn't move until he'd swallowed everything. And it was perfect.

He pulled away slowly, enjoying how Sherlock's cock glistened from his actions. He then glanced up to see dark eyes. The color was completely gone and the pupils where blown wide all the way. He was panting heavily and there was just something in that gaze that just begged for him to continue, but he knew it was just a high from what had just occurred. Sherlock wasn't ready until he could verbally say so.

John tucked the young man back into his trousers and stood quickly.

Before he moved off to the bathroom, where he knew he'd need to take care of his own problem, he leaned into Sherlock and whispered in his ear, "You taste  _amazing_."

He sauntered away then, leaving his friend stuttering behind him.

John smirked in victory. Just one of many soon to be escapades. He could see it and he knew that he could wait patiently.

He definitely had Sherlock now.

**A/N: Another one done!**

**Remember, this is BAMF John. He's awesome.**

**Check out my cute little, John/Sherlock O/S. ' ** _According to You, I am Beautiful_ '. Sherlock reflects on his feelings for John. Fluffy. And ' _Sherrinford_ ', Johnlock, fluffy O/S.****

**How was it? Let me know in a constructive, respectful manner please? If you are rude or you flame me, do not expect a good response. Treat others how you wish to be treated. Assholes don't deserve kindness, remember that.**

**See ya! :D**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the note, please don't hate on my writing, I know it sucks.
> 
> Added some pics this chapter. Thought it's be more realistic, you know. I wrote the note but the other pics aren't mine.
> 
> The Brigade number is real, I looked it up and everything. They were stationed in Afghanistan.
> 
> How was the fun at the end?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. More romance in this! Fluff. Sex!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marry is Russian in this.
> 
> Irene is a good friend.
> 
> Sherlock is cute around John only.
> 
> There is sex involved.
> 
> A Harvest Dinner and Winter Solstice are celebrated.

**A/N: Hello, people!**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

**I have no beta.**

**ENJOY! LAST CHAPTER!**

"Sher, where did we get this ashtray?"

John held the really fancy crystal object out when Sherlock looked up inquiringly. Blue eyes sparkled as he answered, "Buckingham Palace."

That gave John pause. Buckingham Palace? How the bloody hell did Sherlock get his hands on it? "You didn't buy this, did you?"

"No."

"Why did you filch an ashtray from the royal family?"

…

…

…

John looked over to see if Sherlock was ignoring him but he wasn't. He was staring at the table, instead of the microscope, cheeks flushed a deep pink. He mumbled something.

"Pardon?"

"I  _said_ , 'because you wanted it'."

John looked down at the crystal and then thought back to their time at the Palace and smiled. So he had.

"That's awfully sweet of you Sher. Thank you."

"Hmph."

* * *

"John."

…

"John."

…

" _John_!"

…

" _JOHN_!"

"What?!"

Sherlock flushed suddenly and looked away while hiding his face behind his mug and saying, "The tea is good. Thank you."

He shuffled away then, leaving John to stare after him, wondering what that was about.

He shrugged and returned to his paper.

* * *

John hummed as he cooked. It was nearing the end of Novewmber and it was time for the Harvest Dinner. He had an entire meal to plan out. Why? Because they were going to have a very large get together and the only thing he requested for people to bring, was a dessert each.

Sherlock had a thing for sweets and would gorge himself on anything sugary before going for the real food. So, if he saw a big collection of desserts, John would be able to use them as an incentive to get him to eat a full plate of real food first. Sherlock was still too thin for his liking.

He hummed and swayed from side to side as he worked.

_The other night dear, as I lay sleeping,_

_I dreamed I held you in my arms._

_When I awoke dear, I was mistaken,_

_So I bowed my head and I cried._

Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner, plus Greg and his children, Molly and her new lover, who also happened to be female - her name was Janine - and finally Mycroft, who had been reluctant from the giving of the invitation, were to attend. He had ot make sure everything was perfect.

_You are my Sunshine,_

_My only Sunshine._

_You make me happy,_

_When skies are grey._

_You'll never know dear,_

_How much I love you._

_So please don't take,_

_My Sunshine away._

Sherlock appeared by his side then, while he was busy making the chicken.

"I did not know that you have musical talent."

John smiled as rubbed the seasoning he'd made, all over the bird.

"There is much you still do not know about me. Talents acquired that were never put on record. Skills unknown to the world. I just don't feel like bragging about them, you know."

"If you can do it, why not flaunt it?"

"I don't get off on attention. I prefer to melt into the background and control situations with shock. Laying all my cards bare is tedious and perhaps I don't want people to know everything about me. It's hilarious to shock people, like with Irene."

"But you sing very well."

"Thank you."

"You like Johnny Cash."

"Yes. My mum was American and she favored Johnny. Named me for him too!"

Sherlock leaned against the counter and said, "You never talk about your family, except for you sister and even that is rare. Is your relationship like mine and Mycroft's?"

John's nose wrinkled at the thought. "I guess it's only fair to tell you. Even though it wasn't deliberate, I've seen what  _your_ family is like and I  _should_ return the favor."

He stuffed the chicken with stuffing and sausage and a few slices of apple, before shoving the entire body into the prepared duck he had already worked with. He sprinkled some more seasoning on the larger bird and then lifted it carefully, before stuffing the entire thing into the 3 Stone turkey they'd gotten. It had to be 4 Stone by now.

John sighed in relief once the entire thing was stuffed together and proceeded to fill all the nooks and crannies with various cheeses and vegetables.

"What are you making?" Sherlock asked, looking confused.

"You've never had Royal Roast?"

"No."

" _Wow_. Anyway, the Americans call it TurDucKen. Turkey, stuffed with a duck which is then stuffed with a chicken. I put sausage, apples, and stuffing inside the chicken because Sausage Apple Crisp Stuffing is the best. Fill in the cracks with extra vegetables or cheeses, I like to do both. I then I like to marinate it for an hour in a lemon mixture I've made. What you do, is you cut several small slits into the turkey and pour the juice over the top. I then like to stick small slices of lime into them and set it in the refrigerator for the time being. When it's finished, it goes in the oven for the next ten hours on a low heat. It gives time for the flavors to coalesce."

John washed his hands after setting the large bird in the pan in the fridge. He then sat at the table and began to slice some vegetables.

"So about my family…"

He frowned as he thought about it.

"We were a pretty basic family, living in Dublin."

" _You're Irish_?!"

He looked up to see Sherlock's surprise and smiled. "Yes. To be honest, I'm a Strawberry Blonde, but all those days in the sun in Afghanistan, affected my hair, naturally bleaching it. My beard and mustache grow in light red and can shock people. Since I'm getting older, the hairs are going silver. Red heads in my family go silver, not grey."

Sherlock nodded as thought about it. "You don't have that sort accent or dialect."

" _Eejit_ _ *****_ _, me mum taught me well._  Besides, spending so many years with men and women of various dialects and accents tend to wear on you. Sometimes I can even sound Cockney."

" _Fascinating_."

John could see that Sherlock truly felt that way.

"Thanks. Any who, life was pretty easy….. until I started skipping grades."

John trailed off for a moment so that he could arrange the apple slices in the proper form.

"I was ten when it all just went from  _okay_ to worse in the course of a year. I had done normal schooling at the Academy like everyone in my class. Had been with them all for  _years_ , but then I scored high on all of my end of the year exams and the chairman pulled me into his office and asked how often I studied. I hadn't learned of my grade yet, so when he asked me - a small nine, soon to be ten year old who was going into his penultimate year of Primary, who could read minds like it was nothing and was afraid of being ostracized if people found out - how often I studied my work, I told him that I didn't. I just did my assignments and when he proceeded to ask me in every way possible if I was telling the truth and ruled out that I indeed was being truthful, he revealed my scores. Highest for a person in my grade to have ever obtained in the Academy since its inception."

John placed the pie in the oven and returned to his cutting.

"They gave me an assessment test immediately and ruled out that I was more intelligent than my grade level and placed me in the  _last_ year in Primary. Mum was so proud, having skipped grades herself in America. My father however, was another story. He didn't finish school and settled down to be a farmer. It was mum's dowry from  _her_ father who was a wealthy American businessman, that got Harry and I through the Academy. Since father never made it far in school, he didn't like the fact that I was already passing him by. He didn't even  _want_ a son, if the truth must be spoken. That was the first mistake I made in life. And then when I passed the grade that he had dropped out from in his day, he was just angry. So angry."

John could see Sherlock's eyes roaming over him clearly. Trying to look for signs of abuse. He smiled a little. Sherlock was truly a sweetheart deep inside.

"He didn't hurt me physically, so you don't have to worry about that. But the verbal abuse didn't mean it was any better. He called me a 'swot' repeatedly. Insulted my love for science. Told me that I wouldn't amount to anything and said that no one would want me. He and mum fought over me constantly, but she stayed for Harry and I and didn't want to leave us with him.

It was Christmas when he made a choice. I was only ten. A mere six months after being bumped up a grade. Harry is five years older than me, so she understood everything better than I did at the time. But back when we were actually on pleasant terms, I used to be allowed to cuddle with her on holidays. We were in her room and we had stayed up all night, talking about everything we could think of. It was a tradition.

And then we heard a noise and we sneaked downstairs to see our father carrying bags out the door. I rushed to the window to see him getting into the car, it was an old Trident Clipper, which had been purchased by mum's father, for us. A garish yellow color that stood out against the snow and the darkness. I watched as he got in and proceeded to drive away. And then Harry was running into the cold, with only a dressing gown on, screaming at the top of her lungs for him to come back. She ran all the way to the end of the lane, before coming back and stomping to her room. Mum was awake by then.

I didn't know what had happened and when mum tried to explain in a kind and non trauma inducing manner, Harry appeared, screaming that it was all my fault and that he had hated me and that I drove him away. She'd been his favorite and was obviously closer to him than I was. We did not celebrate Christmas that year, Harry having destroyed everything in her fit of rage. She then stopped talking to me unless it was to put me down."

John combined everything into one bowl and proceed to pour extra virgin olive oil over the vegetables and pieces of chopped meat. He sprinkled some seasoning on it all.

"That wasn't all though, was it?" Sherlock asked, as alert as ever.

"I'm afraid not."

John waited a few more minutes, before continuing his story.

"Harry got into  _drugs_ two months later."

Sherlock stiffened at the tone he had used when saying the word. But seriously, he hated drugs.

"She began filching mum's money and using it to buy all manner of things to get high from. Then came the drinking. She was horrible to me and my schooling took a downward turn in those months. Mum even found me in the bathroom twice, surrounded by my own blood and multiple razors."

Sherlock flinched at that revelation, eyes going wide in horror.

"I was going to do it a third time, when something told me that I should ask for help instead. And with the blade in hand, I went out to mum and asked her to get me the help I needed. Around the same time, Harry was caught finally and placed in a juvenile holding center. Not exactly a prison but also not an asylum and not exactly a rehabilitation center either. It's hard to explain, but they helped her addiction problems while putting her to work. So while I was placed in intensive care for nearly six months until I finally just snapped out of whatever was wrong with me, she was going through specific training and rigorous detoxification in order to be allowed to return to society.

She went back to school in order to finish her last year of Secondary, after being away for two years. Imagine her surprise to see me, her little brother and the very person she despised most in the world, in the same form time and year as her when I was only at the age of twelve. I had dedicated myself after my return and began to actually  _study_. I didn't expect that studying would make such a  _difference_ , but it did.

Our year mates poked fun. They liked me because apparently I'm 'warm and cuddly' to be around. And they asked why she wasn't as brilliant as I was. They teased her relentlessly as an 'addict' and a 'daft bimbo'. She struggled to pass and there I was, breezing by everything like there was no issue, having only advanced placement classes, while she was barely getting by. She reviled me constantly over it."

John rolled his eyes as he thought of the past. He hated remembering it all, but it was hard not to. He used Harry's old phone on a daily basis and seeing Mycroft made him think of his own older sibling.

"I got into the University rather easily. I was the genius boy that everyone knew about and the community pitched in to help our family. Mum didn't have to pay a thing for me thenceforth. Harry repeated her last year three times and when they finally just passed her to get rid of her, she didn't want to go to University and mum forced her to get a job in a local restaurant. She sold the farm and moved into a small one bedroom flat of her own.

I was eighteen when mum passed on, over a heart attack. She left everything in her Will to me. Harry's former anger with me, was rekindled. Mum left her nothing. Refused to pay for that type of lifestyle. Harry turned to drinking again, just as she had met her girlfriend, soon-to-be wife. They divorced a few years later. She met another woman and married her. That was Clara. We got on very well and she really cared about Harry. She somehow managed to get us speaking to one another again. Sort of like you and Mycroft, without all the posturing. But then a few months after I was discharged, Harry just walked out, after eight years of marriage. I still keep in touch with Clara, but besides the calls on my birthday or hers, Harry and I aren't on speaking terms.

We have no living family besides our mum's father's family, but they don't really care about us enough in order to keep in touch. Mum was the youngest in a long line of children and it's easy to forget.

As for our scoundrel of a sperm donor, he was found two days after he left us that Christmas morning. The car slid on some black ice and went over a cliff. He died by bleeding and freezing to death.  _Justice_ , I'd say."

That had to be the only true good thing about his family history. Was it bad for him to revel in his 'father's' death so much? Was that abnormal? Wrong? Did it make him bad for laughing about it the day the authorities told his family?

His busily working hands were being held suddenly. Long and pale fingers resting on his. He looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze. The younger man was serious. His mind showing genuine feeling.

"You do know that he was wrong, right?"

"Hm?" John asked while getting lost in the color of those eyes and that fancy parchment.

"You have made something of yourself. You are amazing and you are wanted. I want you. I want you to be happy and laugh. I want you to not have to worry about unnecessary things and public opinions. I want you to be here with me and remain my only friend. I want you to be yourself. I want John Watson. Former soldier. Doctor. Friend. I want you to know how incredible I find you and that your father was a brain dead twat."

John had started off feeling very emotional at the beginning of Sherlock's speech and by the time he had finished, he was snickering, unable to help himself.

"Sher, you are the most amazing person I have ever met. Please don't ever change."

Sherlock gave a self sufficient nod and released John's hands slowly. "I shall endeavor not to do so. Thank you for all you do for me, John."

"It's a pleasure, Sher."

John went back to cutting and Sherlock began to ask more questions.

"Can you play an instrument? I have noticed your deft fingering when handling various weaponry, needlework, massaging, and typing. Though you've yet to mention or touch an instrument."

John was smiling again, brightly and full of embarrassment as he recalled his clarinet lessons. "In Primary, I attempted to take the clarinet but it was terrible. I can do a passable Do Re Mi on it though. That's it for Woodwinds. I play piano different than what is considered 'correct' by society. When it was discovered that I could play by ear, but that I couldn't take instruction from a tutor very well, I just purchased the books and taught myself the information I needed. I then began composing my own variations of popular songs. I haven't played in years though. I learned to play an electric violin, I cannot handle a regular however. The fit and the weight aren't enough for me. I can't handle the feel of the bow across the strings. I don't understand it but I feel a significant difference between playing the two types and a violin like yours just makes me uncomfortable."

He frowned, still not understanding it all himself. It made no sense!

"You appreciate good music then?" Sherlock asked, but John saw the alternate question he had wanted to ask.

**Do you like how I play?**

"Sher, I love how you get lost in your music. It's obvious how much you care for your violin by how you hold it, polish it, and generally play it. And your fingers are sexy when you play."

The consulting detective flushed for the millionth time and nodded. "Thank you. What about your literary preferences?"

"Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, William Shakespeare, Alfred Tennyson, Homer and Aesop. Those are more toward poetry and older literature, but I do fancy poetry more. More modernly known authors would be J.R.R. Tolkien, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, William Faulkner, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Harriet Beecher Stowe. I have many more that I love, but mostly the literature I turn to all come from those writers."

"A good assortment. I'm please that you know of Aesop and Homer."

John grinned, "'Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.'"

Sherlock returned the grin and continued with, "'And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest.'"

The flatmates shared a giggle.

"So we have similar taste in literature. That's good to know," Sherlock nodded to himself.

John smirked, "Does that make you excited?"

Sherlock's brows drew together. "What?"

"Nothing."

* * *

John lounged on the sofa, reading the Hobbit, having felt inspired from watching the movie earlier. Sherlock entered the room in that moment, wearing his pajamas and his dressing gown. With a huff, he threw himself down on the sofa, head firmly landing in John's lap.

The doctor looked down at the head of curls and sighed. He began softly carding his fingers through the thick mass.

"Are you well, Sherlock?"

"Bored."

"Of course you are."

They sat in relatively comfortable silence for the next hour, until Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen, coming back with a bottle and two snifters.

"I saved the good brandy," he explained.

"Meaning, you managed to hide it from Mycroft during the Harvest Dinner?"

"Precisely."

Sherlock poured them both a glass and sat on the sofa beside him. A lot closer than he normally did. He was practically in John's lap, with how his legs bunched up, leaning on John's left leg and his head was against John's shoulder.

John smirked and shifted until he could place his snifter on the coffee table, adjusting his position in order to catch more light for his reading.

"Speaking of Tolkien," Sherlock murmured against his arm.

"Yes. Is it bad that I can hear your voice whenever I read Smaug's part?"

Sherlock looked up at him, heterochromatic eyes alight with mischief. "Not at all. I used to play Smaug when I was younger. I happen to know that I can play a very good Smaug."

"Prove it," John challenged.

The next hour was spent with John, literally immersed in the world of Tolkien, hard as hell from every rumble of words that spilled from Sherlock's cupid's bow lips. He even added little growls here and there, to make it more realistic. John was flushed and his mind was filled with less than honorable thoughts.

"You're amazing."

It came out in a breathy tone, making the consulting detective look up at him in question.

"Elevated pulse, dilated eyes, quickened breathing. My dear Watson, I do believe you are sexually stimulated to my voice. How…  _precious_."

John shuddered as he registered those purred words. He looked away from Sherlock, not wanting his friend to see him flush.

" _Come, now. Don't be shy_ ," Sherlock teased, leaning over him as he quoted Smaug's line straight from the movie which they had watched only a few hours previous.

"Sher, you're a bloody cock tease. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into by doing this," John warned.

And he hadn't expected Sherlock to smirk at him. Sherlock so far had only flushed like a virgin maiden whenever John insinuated something along the lines of sex. But at that moment, he was partially pinning John to the sofa and smirking at him. And his parchment was replaced by images. Images of John and Sherlock doing unspeakable things.  _Many things_. Sherlock was feeling confident.

John shifted slightly, allowing his back to lay out fully on the sofa. Sherlock pressed him into the cushions with his very warm body. Sherlock's legs framed John's hips and the detective pushed himself against John so close, his face was pressed into the doctor's shoulder.

"John," Sherlock said, vice muffled by the fabric of John's jumper. "You've been patient with me. Very patient. I'm sorry."

John frowned, "Sherlock, it's okay. I can wait for you and besides, you're close, I can feel and see it." He then shifted a big, raising his hips to brush against the bulge in Sherlock trousers.

The inexperienced man shuddered visibly and moaned into John's shoulder blade. "I wish I was more confident to take the next steps, but personally, I have no data in this sort of thing. I don't know what to do and I regret to say that I am feeling inadequate and exposed."

Sherlock's head was still down, an obvious refusal to look John in the eye.

"Sher, I find it amazing that you even want me at all," John confided, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

Sherlock snapped back and gave him a searching look. "You truly believe that," he said in a breathless tone that did nothing to help with John's current discomfort.

John shrugged the best he could in his position. "I'm not as good looking as you are, Sher. I have a lot of confidence and a man with confidence always looks better. Physically, I am severely marred and I hold nothing against your aesthetically pleasing self. Then there's the whole, seeing everything in your head, thing. That makes me uncomfortable."

And suddenly, John was looking deeply into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's mental parchment was being covered by beautiful script, describing exactly what Sherlock seemed to  _adore_ about John.

_**Always tells the truth because there is no reason to lie. Only lies have detail.** _

_**Has an amount of intelligence that is higher than most others. Could be considered on par with myself even if reading someone's thoughts is a part of the reason.** _

_**Appreciates the fields I base my experiments on.** _

_**Has a Masters in Biology and Microbiology.** _

_**Understands my adoration for The Work and assists in giving good reputation for it. Without John, there would be no Work.** _

_**The first person to accept all of me without hesitation.** _

_**The first person to truly care about my health as a whole.** _

_**My first friend.** _

_**My first 'crush', how juvenile.** _

_**He has a nice smile.** _

_**He only smiles like that when he's looking at me.** _

_**He's given me a diminutive term - nickname - and uses it often.** _

_**Cooks delicious food.** _

_**Makes tea and coffee just right.** _

_**Wears jumpers that make him seem cuddly and unassuming.** _

_**Good with a gun, inspiring fantasies I didn't think I'd ever be interested in.** _

_**Takes charge in important moments but does not override me and try to control me.** _

_**Taunts Mycroft in the most delicious of ways.** _

_**Confirmed Mycroft's status as a virgin.** _

_**Finds me attractive in more ways than just my appearance.** _

_**Doesn't pressure me and respects my boundaries.** _

_**Blunt about his feelings.** _

_**Likes touching me.** _

_**Has a gentle touch.** _

_**Talented in many areas.** _

_**Compliments me. I think I have a kink for it.** _

_**Finds my voice to be sexy.** _

_**Allows me to steal his laptop and gun with no complaint.** _

_**He is John.** _

The doctor flushed slightly. Sherlock's whole list was filled with sweet information that he didn't know Sherlock appreciated so much. He liked it when John touched him.

"Okay, I get it you great berk, you have many reasons to like me." He smiled. "Thank you."

Sherlock was in a cuddling mood. He normally wasn't, but today he was.

John's little problem went away not too long after. It was much nicer to just lay on the sofa, wrapped in the lanky extremities that made up Sherlock's body. He didn't know when the next time Sherlock would be like this, was going to be. He'd get his fill as much as possible.

* * *

John stared. He didn't really know what to make of the whole thing.

Sherlock was pacing the length of the living area, rubbing the crown of the skull's head. His eyes were closed and his mouth was moving a mile a minute.

He shrugged and moved into the kitchen to make the man some tea. John noticed his laptop open on the coffee table and Sherlock's mobile was resting on the touch pad. It was probably for a case. Before there was John, there was the skull and Sherlock used to use it to help himself find the answers faster.

He placed the cup of steaming liquid beside the laptop and smiled as Sherlock planted himself on the sofa with a huff.

He pretended not to notice how Sherlock's hand inched toward the porcelain and just returned to the kitchen to let the man think in peace.

* * *

Sherlock was being a prat. Or rather, to everyone else around. Sherlock was a prat. To John, who had seen more than anyone else ever possibly could, Sherlock was staking his territory. Telling all who would listen that John was his. Not just his flatmate, colleague, or blogger. Sherlock intended for everyone to know that he was romantically interested in John.

It had been a case. A man found dead in the most odd of ways, according to Sherlock.

Shot in the chest, but by the exit wound, angle of the shot, and the blood splatter, the person had been rather close. In fact, mere feet away. However, there were no clues as to the killer. Literally, nothing but the bullet, which was soon discarded since apparently they found the gun is belonged to, which was in possession of the dead man. Someone used his own gun against him.

Sherlock explained that nothing was out of place if showed possible worry, so the man hadn't been expecting deadly company. Nothing had been removed from the flat. It was a simple kill and run sort of murder.

Sherlock then claimed that it was a hired assassin, which was all they had to go on. When asked, he went on an extremely long winded speech of how and why.

The man, Eric Varner, was on good terms with everyone. A relatively nice man who was the sort most people couldn't help but like. He was a business owner and was very fair and understanding. His employees loved him. His friends had nothing but high praise for him. He was what most would consider, to be very successful in life.

So with no visible enemies anywhere, it meant that someone unknown had felt a sort of negative feeling for the man, requiring the assistance of an extremely skilled assassin to do his work. So skilled in fact, there was no evidence of coming or going. No fibers on the Persian rugs. No fingerprints or scuff marks. Nothing.

It wasn't until a month later, when another business owner was found dead in his apartment, with exactly the same info as the other man, was found. Sherlock immediately noticed that both men owned a particular business on the same street. Same side of the street as well.

When another man turned up dead, Sherlock realized that someone was trying to gain possession of the street itself in a sense. Three business were gone. All standing right in a row, though none had anything in common, just the street and the fact that they were neighbors. Sherlock was adamant that someone either wanted to buy the plot or just didn't like the competition, if that was what the dead men were to be considered.

Unfortunately, with nothing else to go on, the cases remained cold. Sherlock did not appreciate the fact that a level 10 case had so little information to give him.

He was already annoyed. Add on the fact that nearly every woman they came into contact with, kept flirting with John, Sherlock was downright hissy.

John thought it was cute.

* * *

And then he met her.

She was named Mary Morstan and she was a new nurse down at the nearby clinic. He'd gone for his yearly immunizations and she'd introduced herself. Both never made eye contact though.

She was witty and rather charming. She gave him a few good laughs, making the whole experience bearable. He hated shots.

He met her a day later, at Tesco's. They again, did not make eye contact. It was still nice to see her in a sense.

It didn't fully dawn on him until a week later, when he realized that he was seeing Mary everywhere. Literally, every time he went out and not just through his own eyes, but others as well. It was odd.

Sherlock picked up on it quickly and asked what was wrong. He explained that she was new and  _everywhere_.

And so Sherlock hounded him no matter where he went. He then professed to finding Mary to be suspicious and asked John to look directly into her eyes the next time he saw her.

Her hands were too still, she regulated her breathing too masterfully, and most of all, she batted her eyes at John too damn often.

Most would assume jealousy, but Sherlock rarely felt need to be jealous. He explained that it was worse than the time he came to John for advice about the woman flirting with him. That it was too 'forced'.

The next encounter John had with her, was in the most unusual of places.

A church.

Not during mass. Not even on a day where service was held.

No, Sherlock messaged him to join him at an old church, regardless of convenience. It was very Sherlockian and John had gone, knowing it had to do with a potential lead to the level 10 case.

And then he arrived to find Sherlock tied to the large wooden cross, gagged with a strip of white cloth. The consulting detective was not worried. In fact, he looked annoyed. And John saw exactly how he came to be in that situation.

_Mary_.

Sherlock had been outsmarted by a woman who was a foot shorter than him and who was younger than he was. She defeated his Buritsu easily. His pride was hurt.

And then John spun around, quickly drawing his Browning and pointing it at Mary's chest. She was mere feet away and he realized that she had gotten behind him, much like she had with Sherlock, without making a sound. And the similarity of the situation hit him. A few feet away, unsuspected, dressed in all black and carrying a gun with a silencer on the end.

She was the assassin.

The two stared at each other and John felt a small amount of pride fill him at his quick thinking. She wouldn't be making it out alive.

Mary smirked, "Your withdrawal time is amazing. Faster than mine."

"Thanks," he said with false cheer. "I've had many years to work on it, you see. And how has it been, working for Mikhailov since early childhood?"

Mary's leader in Moscow. She was a part of the Russian mob. The Solntsevskaya Bratva, would be a better explanation. She had a good English accent though.

Yes, Mary - actually named Anzhelika Galina Renata Averyanova - was very good at her job. But she wasn't so good at hiding emotions and John's revelation of her boss, scared her enough for her to pull the trigger.

" _John_!"

John fell back with a shout, hitting the floor hard.

Marry moved to stand over him, but he was fast and flipped back, kicking the gun from her outstretched hand and twisting himself around to drag her to the floor. She toppled over his shoulder and he rolled until he had her pinned, his Browning pressed to her skull.

"H-how?!"

He smirked. "Sherlock's brother owed me a favor and neither of us ever leave for a level 10 case without our bulletproof vests on. Too bad for you."

And John quickly reamed her across the head, rendering her unconscious.

He got up, collected her gun, and moved over to untie Sherlock from the large piece of wood.

The man did not wait. He attacked John with such ferocity, the doctor moaned in surprise at their mouths connected.

Sherlock was groping at anything his hands could reach on John's form as he pulled the man in close, mumbling about brilliance.

"You were amazing, John," Sherlock breathed when he pulled away. "Incredible. Astounding. So in control. I confess myself, aroused."

Sherlock's heterochromatic orbs glistened with truth. He was grinning proudly at John and he was feeling incredibly horny.

John laughed a little, the adrenaline from the whole danger part finally catching up to him. "If this is the reaction I receive every time I save you, you should get kidnapped more often."

Sherlock simply pushed John back, until he had to sit on the pew in the front row. The consulting detective proceeded to straddle John's lap, taking his flatmate's head between his gloved hands and kissing him breathless.

After a moment of indulging, John had to be responsible and pull away. Sherlock whined slightly in disagreement and tried to chase him, only to latch onto John's neck when the ex-soldier turned his head away.

"Sher, we have to call your brother. I'm sure he'd like to know that you are safe and that someone not of British descent is running about the country illegally and killing people."

Sherlock huffed and got to his feet. "Fine."

And they fixed their attention on the unconscious blonde woman on the floor.

* * *

The following weeks were filled with Sherlock cornering John and pushing him up against walls and doors of all kinds in order to thoroughly ravage him.

Seriously, people apparently did get shoved up against things and snogged senseless. He'd never thought it was true but Sherlock seemed to be a practitioner of irregular actions and decided to be how own person. John approved.

Whether he was cooking, making tea, typing the latest case, or just sitting around, Sherlock would find him and display his attraction very clearly. It was hot.

Sherlock was also a lot more forward with his intentions and feelings where John was concerned. He also allowed himself to admit that he cared for John. John's heart was all aflutter for days.

* * *

Christmas came next.

Sherlock admitted to his family never celebrating it and instead, they burned a Yule log on the night of the Winter Solstice and exchanged gifts. John had seen it in his memories, but didn't really know much about it.

Sherlock explained that he liked sprinkling certain chemicals on different parts of the wood so that it would burn in multiple colors. One of his favored Chemistry experiments as a child.

Sherlock did concede to getting a tree though, for John's sake. He asked to decorate it though and so long as there were no body parts, John didn't care what went on it.

Well, Sherlock went fancy and purchased a large fiber optic tree that switched between red, green and blue lighting. The white of the tree itself stood out against the dark decorations that Sherlock had attached to it. Skulls, guns, some unused Chemistry utensils, and a lot of paper cut snowflakes, courtesy of John.

Sherlock's amazement at John's ability regarding paper and scissors, had him asking John to cover the tree.

In a specific way that John had learned in his childhood, he covered the tree in Sherlock and John snowflakes. Each looking like a silhouette of the two flatmates. Sherlock tried his hand at it and as expected, he did it perfectly.

John bought Sherlock a new microscope for Christmas. One of those several hundred quid ones that required special slides. He was excited to give it.

Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, not wanting to give away his surprise.

They had Mrs. Hudson over each night for supper. John cooked the food and she baked the goods and they had a simple little party. Sherlock played his violin in contribution.

Some hot cocoa and peppermint sticks.

World known Christmas music.

Sherlock burning his Yule Log on the night of the Winter Solstice.

Exchanging gifts Christmas morning.

Snogging Christmas evening.

Snuggling on the sofa early morning on Boxing Day.

Getting pissed on New Years Eve, resulting in many questions and concerns as to why they were cuffed together in Sherlock's bed. Though they awoke clothed.

Relaxing on New Years Day with a simple cup of tea between them.

Enjoying each other's company.

* * *

"John, may I use your comb?"

"You're actually asking? Are you feeling well?"

"Humorous John, truly tickling."

"Yes, you can use it. I don't care."

"What if I have lice?"

"Then I'll have lice too and we'll both have to go bald."

He looked up to see Sherlock's nose wrinkle at the thought. He brushed his fingers through his curls and shook his head. "I would immediately purchase a wig. I would not look good without head hair."

"I think you look good in anything."

The consulting detective smiled lightly and winked. "I know you do."

He swept from the room without a backwards glance.

* * *

Too gorgeous for his own bloody good!

John stared at Sherlock as he paced through the living area, hands held under his mouth in the 'thinking pose'.

He then moved over to the sofa, where John was sitting, and plopped down on it. His curly head rested in John's lap.

"Sher, it's really not that big of a deal."

"Oh, but it is, John! It is. It's so bloody confusing though."

And Sherlock's language turning a bit naughty there was a turn on.

John shifted slightly, but Sherlock head was right on his erection and it rubbed against him when he moved.

"What sexually stimulates you, John?"

"Sher, just looking at you is enough to stimulate me. Trust me, I've never been this easy to arouse before. You're a very special case, where my anatomy is concerned. Very special."

The curly haired man's eyes popped open and he looked up into John's eyes. They stared in silence, until Sherlock's hand reached up and tugged John's head down, pulling the doctor into an awkward angled kiss.

And even despite that little piece of information, John was filled with a strong warmth. Sherlock was like a spark. A flash of lightning. the static shock one would get after treading on a carpet.

He was allowed to pull away a moment later, noting that Sherlock was a mess. His eyes seemed to have darkened to a deep forest green color. Pupils dilated, cupid's bow lips parted as he took in ragged breaths. It was spectacular to witness. Knowing that no one else had ever seen the proud man in such a state, made it even better.

John smiled.

"You're getting a lot better at this, Sher. I'm impressed."

Sherlock's brow quirked, "Well I've been developing some skill thanks to all the practice I've been acquiring from you."

The blonde hummed and carded his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "Yes, you have."

* * *

"Sher, I'm getting old. You can't expect me to be so agile, you know."

Sherlock turned around and regarded him closely. "John, you aren't even near forty yet. You are young and rather fit. You can do this just fine."

The doctor sighed, knowing that his friend/something more? was right. He just really didn't want to do it.

"Can't it happen another way?"

"No."

"Please?"

"That look does not work on me, John."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

He was right. Berk.

* * *

"Well, aren't you just darling together."

John smirked as he offered Irene some tea. Earl Grey of course, for her delicate taste buds.

"We're taking it low and slow, Irene. No need to tease him. He can snog very well though."

Sherlock scrunched himself in his chair and glared at the beautiful woman that had commandeered John's chair. She grinned back, obviously taunting him with her eyes.

He sniffed and looked to John expectantly. John sighed and went to fetch him some tea as well.

"You better drink it all, you twat," he mumbled, handing it over.

Sherlock did not move his gaze from Irene's and the two just stared at each other. John looked back and forth between them and rolled his eyes.

"So, Captain, would you like to go shopping?" Irene asked, turning to smirk at him.

"You'd have me waste money on things I don't need," he pointed out, knowing how she worked.

"Oh, come now. Surely you'd like for your detective to see you at your best?" Her mind was awash with images of him in very well fitted suits. And then she veered off to a famous 'toy store' she knew.

He couldn't help but nod. The thought of a special riding crop for other purposes, was nice. "Okay."

The Woman stood and placed her tea down. "Lovely. Come, let's leave your man to himself for a while. And when you return…."

He smiled and waved farewell to Sherlock who was still staring at them as they left the room.

Once they were in the car that Kate had parked outside, John turned and waved to the window, where sure enough, Sherlock was standing, frowning down at him.

"I hope you show me some good merchandise, because he's going to throw quite the fit."

"Don't worry."

He didn't.

The next five hours, he was poked and prodded and handed clothing. Once she was satisfied with the suits she had chosen, she towed him across the city to her fancy 'toy shop' and they perused the aisles.

"Sherlock has a riding crop and I favor it, but I'm always worried about what he used it for. He sometimes whips corpses with it and I have to wash it. I think it'd be better to just have another on hand. Maybe a few actually."

"Have you actually gotten to sex yet?"

"No. A lot of snogging, but he's unsure of himself and has been trying to educate himself by watching pornography on my laptop. The berk can't even use his own bloody laptop," John smiled fondly.

Irene leaned against the wall and quirked a brow. "You love him."

No denying it at all. John nodded, because he knew that he tended to stare at Sherlock lie he was the sun and the moon all wrapped into one. He was just that amazed.

"Well, he's very lucky to have you. So we should make your first time together, special. What sort of flavors do you both like?" she asked, staring at the wall of lubes.

* * *

John's new suits were delivered two weeks later and decided to do what Irene had instructed and chose to wear a suit all day, much like Sherlock liked to.

So when Sherlock received a summons from Lestrade to get to Scotland Yard, he told John to get ready and John immediately did so. He took great care. He left the tie on the bed and made sure to open the first to buttons of his shirt. Irene told him that since Sherlock favored wine colors, it would be best for him to wear shirts of similar shading.

So a dark mauve graced his skin, followed by his suit coat.

Sherlock's double take when he appeared in the kitchen, all properly dressed, was hilarious. His jaw dropped and he circled John like a vulture fixing on its prey. Eyes hungry and trailing over every inch of John.

Mission success. Sherlock was sufficiently turned on if his growing bulge was anything to go by.

John winked teasingly and was completely prepared for Sherlock to crowd him against the wall and snog him senseless.

Lestrade could wit a few more minutes.

* * *

Sherlock had decided to let him rest for the day and even made him tea before leaving! It was really sweet.

John got all caught up with his blogging and any side jobs he had received from Mycroft. He then sat and watched some Doctor Who.

John stirred as his mobile beeped.

He checked it, coming face to face with a photograph of Sherlock standing in front of a body on the ground. A dead body… on the ground. Sherlock took a cheeky selfie when there was a bloody dead body in the background!

John was all prepared to message back, asking whether Sherlock had lost all function of his saner mental capacities, when he saw the text accompanying the photograph.

It was enough to melt his heart and dissipate his annoyance.

_**Solved. Wish you were here. SH** _

He sighed and smiled.

_**:) Spectacular. Me too. JW** _

* * *

John was awoken on Valentines Day, by Sherlock, who decided to be adventurous and explore his first sexual act.

He looked down to find Sherlock literally fondling him, a look of concentration on his face. He was completely devoted to the thought getting John off and was excited to do a good job.

John knew that his partner had been doing a lot of studying in hopes of gaining mental experience in order to prepare himself for when he was fully ready for John. He found it sweet that Sherlock wanted to contribute just as much in their relationship. It was cute, how concentrated he was on the 'proper technique' required to sexually stimulate a penis.

Sherlock's long, magical fingers dancing across his rapidly heating flesh. They measured his length completely and wrapped around him. Even Sherlock's delicate, masterful fingers couldn't wrap all the way around John's growing erection. The revelation made Sherlock's eyes widen and he leaned in close to observe. John moaned when Sherlock's hot breath puffed against him.

"Sher!" he gasped.

The consulting detective glanced up and smirked, before lowering his mouth slowly, pressing a small kiss to the tip of John's cock. The doctor jerked, hips spiking upward.

And the Sherlock's lips parted slightly and he applied a very strong amount of suction to the slit.

John's whole frame shook and he was shocked, because all Sherlock did was hold and kiss him and suck just a tad on the tip of his erection. And yet those three things, were so hot! Probably because it was Sherlock doing it, since he'd never reacted in such a way to anyone else before.

And then Sherlock's cupid's bow lips parted fully and his dark curly head descended!

John had seen Sherlock do many sexy things in the two years they'd lived together, buts this had to take all the cake. It was gorgeous and the man's open eyes, watching his every reaction, just made it all better. All those images playing through his mind like a movie. Both Sherlock and John were the main couple and it was brilliant!

Sherlock pulled off with a loud pop that sounded so erotic it made John shiver.

"I can take approximately five inches without issue. Any further and it would enter my throat," Sherlock commented, sliding his fisted hand up and down John's rigid length.

He leaned down again and murmured, "It's a good thing that I have no gag reflex, isn't it, John?"

Just as the words hit home, Sherlock pressed his tongue flat against his cock and hummed.

John saw stars.

Best Valentine's Day ever. Especially when he returned the actions in kind. Twice in a row.

* * *

Spring and Summer were awash with cases. John felt so busy and he only got to give Sherlock a blowjob seven times! Unfair! He liked doing it, but there wasn't much time.

Sherlock was brilliant of course. Like he always was, though a little stressed.

Some things John couldn't help him with and he'd have to pace and mutter in solitude.

Autumn was a reprieve. Like the preamble to cold weather made people not want to commit such dastardly crimes. As if.

And then came the first snow fall. Sherlock went so far as to hit John with a snowball and so ensued the war that followed.

Though it was all in good fun, 'good fun' led to other things later on. Sherlock was ready and what better way to get warm?

John led his friend/colleague/flatmate/detective/partner and any other term one could think of, into his bedroom. He removed the man's clothing in slow, controlled motions. Sherlock's skin was bared to the room as article upon article of clothing was tossed aside.

John pulled the man into a heated kiss while his hands brushed up his sides and over his pectorals, brushing the hardening nubs resting there. Sherlock gasped and wound his arms tightly around John, moaning into the kiss.

John backed them up to the bed and turned, pushing Sherlock down onto the fancy mattress of his bedroom.

He reached into Sherlock's bedside table, withdrawing the lubricant. He'd seen in in Sherlock's mind many times when the man felt teasing.

But now, John was in charge and he was going to lead Sherlock in the most intimate dance of his life.

Sherlock demanded for his clothes to disappear as well and John allowed himself to be stripped without giving protest. Sherlock was in the moment and was completely dedicated to the experience. He wanted to get to learn John, so John let him.

Though he wasn't as muscled as he was years ago, he was still firm. Muscles weren't as defined but still obviously there. With his jumper gone, Sherlock was free to explore John's flesh greedily. The man mapped out every inch of John's torso, before pulling at his trousers and asking John to remove them quickly.

Once the doctor was garbed on in his pants - silken and smooth as ordered by Irene - Sherlock pulled him onto the bed.

"John," the man purred, elegant fingers trailing over his blogger's thighs.

"I want it, John. I'm ready."

Sherlock was only ever this open with John. That fact was almost as arousing as the picture of a very naked Sherlock laying on the bed and looking up at him with so much trust. It was cute, sweet, and all manner of words that Sherlock would disapprove of if he ever found out John thought them with him in mind.

Sherlock was a very emotional person, despite his whole sociopath spiel. John was the only person permitted to witness his other emotions though. It was not out of character for Sherlock to be considerate where John was concerned. And it most assuredly wasn't strange that his mental parchment was being covered in all the little romantic things that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say aloud.

_**You make me better.** _

_**You care about me so much.** _

_**You are the moon that guides my shifting waves.** _

_**You are everything, John.** _

_**I think I love you. I've never felt like this and I like it. This isn't a disadvantage.** _

_**You aren't a disadvantage.** _

John smiled and leaned down to nuzzle Sherlock's nose with his own. "I love you too, Sher." Sherlock breathing stuttered.

The lubricant was uncapped and John looked up.

"How would you prefer it?"

"Facing you. I want to look at you," Sherlock answered, flushing at his admission. John was suddenly all warm, and not because he was turned on.

With a quick shift, he had Sherlock lift his hips so he could place a large pillow beneath his bum.

He looked down at the lube and grinned. Sherlock knew he liked strawberry. Naughty boy.

The doctor poured some of the substance onto his hands while leaning down and swallowing Sherlock whole. With practised movements, he rendered Sherlock to a shivering, quivering mess, waiting for the right moment to begin preparing him.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock tensed at the intrusion of the first digit, but relaxed when John applied a lot of suctions at the same time. That was the trick that had worked for John. Also, the whole seeing your partner's thoughts was a help because it let him know what they preferred. Sherlock apparently, liked being filled.

A second digit added to the mix and the two spread apart slowly, stretching and digging in deep.

Sherlock was moaning a litany of the chemicals that caused sexual arousal. John found it adorable that Sherlock would resort to Chemistry when his mind was on overload. The last time he gave the man a blowjob, he recited the periodic table of elements in order.

"John!"

The third finger and some more lube worked on further stretching. As far as penis length and girth, John was a bit above average for a British male. About two and a half inches more than the average length. Preparation was very important, especially on virgins.

"John, please."

"You're not fully-"

"I'm ready!"

Maybe he was then.

The position was easy, the slide in was a bit more difficult, but eventually Sherlock's body gave way and soon John was pressed completely against him, covering his shaking form.

There a small whispered 'woah' and John pressed their lips together to calm Sherlock, whose eyes were blown wide in darkness.

Sherlock shifted and raised his hips. One leg and then the other hooked around John's hips. Sherlock's parchment was a mess and he pretty much understood the idea.

And he demonstrated quite thoroughly through the evening, why he was called, John Three Continents Watson. And the not so subtle worshipping of Sherlock's no longer virgin flesh was an added bonus.

* * *

John stared down at the box and then up to Sherlock, whose eyes were closed. Not giving away the gift, eh?

He accepted it slowly and opened the lid.

A smile broke out across his features and he tugged Sherlock into a steamy kiss. "Of course I'll marry you you bloody tosser."

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he sighed in relief, pulling John into his embrace while deepening the kiss.

And now they were engaged.

* * *

"Why are we watching this?"

"Because it's become a big deal in many countries and I'm curious."

"We are not children, John."

"So? Apparently a lot of people, including adults, have found this movie amazing. I'm not stopping it and since I know you aren't going to move any time soon, you'll just have to watch it."

"It's not even a Christmas movie."

"That matters not."

The credits rolled and it began with the standard Disney beginning.

One little girl wakes her sister up to 'build a snowman'. They play around and the younger is accidentally hurt by the older's ice powers.

The trolls in the mountains saved the girl's life, but erased her memory of her sister's powers.

When it came to the point of the father, the king, telling his daughter to hide her powers, Sherlock became irate.

"This is completely ridiculous! He's forcing her to hide away that which makes her special. They should be working on training the ability so that there aren't any repeats. If she learned to control it, there would be no accidents. Even in animation people are idiots."

John frowned as he thought about Sherlock's words. He had to agree. 'Conceal, don't feel. Don't let it show'. That wasn't something you should ever teach a child.

John understood why Sherlock was so affected by that. He'd been forced to repress his 'abilities' for years, because they 'hurt' or 'offended' people. Sherlock didn't like being forced to hide.

The movie wore on. The girls were growing up. The elder locked herself away and the younger was lonely, having no understanding as to why her best friend won't speak to her anymore. The years pass as Anna, the younger, tries to coax her sister out to 'build a snowman' again.

The parents go away and die in a shipwreck, leaving the children orphaned, with the eldest close in age to assuming the throne.

"If she really hadn't seen the light in that long, her complexion who be a lot paler," Sherlock pointed out as the second song came. "It's ludicrous that she assumes she'll fall in love in one night."

"It's a fictional world Sher. And all of Disney's movies have a love that springs up within a day or two, it's a repetitive process."

The consulting detective huffed.

Time wore on.

"I agree with the blonde, she cannot marry someone she just met, she knows nothing about him. I can already tell, he's a liar. He's the youngest in a long line of children and wants to rule one day, but knows it'll most likely never happen with so many brothers ahead of him, so he's targeting the redhead, knowing that she's not experienced in anything in particular and is emotionally stunted.

He'll worm his way into controlling the kingdom somehow and will be the general bad guy. The queen who is viewed as bad in the beginning will be good in the end. The younger sister will make some sort of sacrifice. There, it'll be boring, we should watch something else."

John glowered at the man and said tightly, "That's all well and good for you, but since you are obviously lacking in  _all_ the extra details, the movie stays on. Go bugger off if you're so bloody irritable."

John huffed and focused on the movie and how the queen was dashing across the now frozen lake, running from her problems.

Sherlock did not move. Instead, he pouted when John reprimanded him. He didn't want to watch the movie, but he wanted to be with John. He sighed in annoyance and snuggled into John's side, putting up with the movie in order to be near his fiancé.

The song that had most of the world going 'gaga' over it, came on and John noticed Sherlock sit up as it played through.

_Let it go, let it go_

_Can't hold it back anymore_

_Let it go, let it go_

_Turn away and slam the door!_

_I don't care_

_What they're going to say_

_Let the storm rage on,_

_The cold never bothered me anyway!_

John was surprised that Sherlock said nothing to interrupt this song. He let it play to the end. And when it ended, he said nothing! John had a feeling that it affected him more than he'd care to let on.

The story continued. The sister went after the queen, met a man and his reindeer. Found her sister, got hurt by accident again.

By the end, Sherlock had been correct in his deduction, but when John looked over to see his reaction to the 'act of great love', Sherlock was straight-faced. Nothing gave away his feelings. John was still adamant in believing that Sherlock was affected somehow.

When the movie was over, Sherlock stood slowly and stretched. "We should go to Angelo's tonight."

John's eyes went wide but he nodded, "Okay then. I'll go get dressed."

When they were dressed, Sherlock grabbed his hand and tugged him out the door.

Angelo greeted them like always and set a table up quickly, with a candle to 'set the mood'.

Outside, the snow was falling and the chilly wind easily blew it across vehicles and people walking down the pavement.

The food was great, as usual. Both shared lasagna and garlic bread. Sherlock actually ate!

John wondered if he was feeling well.

When they were on their way home, a large gust of wind literally came and -  _conveniently_ \- blew John's muffler away.

He shivered instantly, feeling snow touch his neck.

His vision was suddenly obscured and when he looked down, Sherlock was wrapping his own muffler around John's neck.

"But you'll get cold," he tried to protest, but was silenced by a quick peck on the lips.

Sherlock pulled away and linked their fingers as he shrugged.

"The cold never bothered me anyway."

John's mouth dropped open as they walked. "I  _knew_  you were affected!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged his fiancé along.

"No more talking, John. Let it go."

* * *

**Thirty Years Later**

"Sher, there is pollen on the table."

"I know, I was experimenting."

"Sher, the bees have to remain outside."

"I know. I was collecting it in a different way and I may or may not have accidentally dumped some."

John looked at his husband and smiled. After all these years, Sherlock was still at it with the experiments.

Sherlock pouted and looked to his book. John sighed and leaned over to peck him on the cheek.

The man looked up and set his book down so that he could stand and wrap his arms around John.

There, as the sun faded from the horizon and twilight was preparing to take over, John lowly sung the words to his favorite song as he and his husband swayed lightly side to side.

_You are my sunshine,_

_My only sunshine,_

_You make me happy,_

_When skies are grey._

_You'll never know dear,_

_How much I love you._

_Please don't take,_

_My sunshine away._

** A/N: Done! THE STORY IS OVER! Yes, I made Mary Russian and that Bratva is real. I do not own the quotes by Homer from the Iliad. Eejit- Irish for 'Idiot'. Irene is a good friend. Thanks for being with me through this whole story. You're all awesome. I hope you liked the ending. **

**How was it? Let me know!**

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**Check me out on Tumblr..<http://helly-watermelonsmellinfellon.tumblr.com/> I have a lot of Johnlock and Harry Potter posts. Also normal humor too. :) I follow back.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END!
> 
> How was it? Let me know.
> 
> Check out my other Johnlock fics.
> 
> Check me out on Tumblr.
> 
> See ya! :D

**Author's Note:**

> So how was it actually? Remember, the quotes aren't mine.


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